


Not Interested in Atonement

by Princessfbi



Series: Graceland Reincarnation AU [2]
Category: Graceland (TV), Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Blood, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Enjolras!Mike, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Graphic Descriptions of blood, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Odin Rossi - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protectiveness, Self-Worth Issues, Touch-Starved, Trust Issues, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:11:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2260641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princessfbi/pseuds/Princessfbi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“Touch,” Combeferre had said, “Is like a language that we as humans are fluent in without even trying. The trying comes into pretending that we don’t understand what that touch means.”</em><br/> </p><p>Mike is just starting to get the wheels on the ground with the buses and with Grantaire back in California he doesn't feel completely stuck in a stand still anymore. Grantaire just wants to know what happened between everyone in Graceland. But then Mike disappears and a couple of old faces come back looking for Odin Rossi and Mike's the only one to have seen his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kjack89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Your Lies are Your Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/954513) by [kjack89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89). 



> It's been _years_ since I've done a multi chapter fic to this extent so if this is terrible or something I apologize profusely in advance. If you really like it then leave a kudos or a comment and I'll know I've done something right with my life in this big ol' world. I do not own Graceland or any of the Les Amis characters/plot points. This fic has been heavily inspired by kjack89's writing. Everyone go check out kjack89's pieces and send your love! 
> 
> Read on my fellow lovers and fighters. Read on.

Sometimes, Grantaire wished he lived in a world where the worst thing he had to worry about was lacrosse practice and rogue werewolves trying to turn random teenagers into lizards. At least that way, when he reunited with his boyfriend after long bouts of separation there would’ve been a cool indie hipster song that echoed in the background as Grantaire’s hair blew in a wind machine and cool camera angles framed his figure. A wind machine. Yes, he wanted a wind machine. But he guessed he could settle for loud, demanding, borderline desperate knocking on his front door.

Grantaire tucked the reassuring weight of his gun in the back of his waistband, sliding his shirt over, as he stumbled towards the door. The banging was a steady frantic beat like a long drawn out sentence, demanding his undivided attention. He shuffled closer to the door, cursing under his breath. Letting his hand hover over the small of his back, thumb just under the material of his shirt --- because he was really considering shooting whoever was on the other side--- Grantaire swung the door open with a scowl. A scowl that was quickly wiped away when strong arms wrapped around his neck and soft lips kissed him fiercely as Mike threw himself through the threshold. Mike slammed the door shut with his foot without breaking the kiss, teeth and tongue clashing against Grantaire’s own.

“Missed you too.” Grantaire hummed when they broke away for air. A strangled impatient noise broke through Mike when his back hit the door and he pulled Grantaire with him. His hands traveled into dark curls, latching onto the inky strands, and pulled when Grantaire kissed him quickly again. He chased after Grantaire’s mouth with his own but the sniper nuzzled the column of his throat. He bit the skin, sucking a bruise, and smirked when a noise that was close to a whine escaped Mike’s lips.

“How did you---“ He started in between kissing and licking the mark but Mike tugged on his curls again.

“Talk _later_."

Grantaire chuckled, the heat of his breath on the sensitive skin making Mike shiver beneath him.

“Alright. Hold on.” He pulled away from Mike, taking the gun from his waistband and hiding it in his duffle bag he had yet to unpack, before kissing the pout from his boyfriend’s lips. The kiss was soft, playful at first because Mike was adorable when he sulked, before deepening. Mike curled up against him as Grantaire’s hands found the small of his back. The feeling of him pressed close was intoxicating and a warmth coiled in the pit of his stomach. The sweet kiss dirtied and dove into something fuller, deeper and passionate. Grantaire nipped at Mike’s bottom lip with his teeth as Mike’s hands wrapped around his neck again. Grantaire slid his hands down further, hitching a thigh over his hipbone followed by the other, and Mike hooked his ankles together.  Walking backwards, Grantaire laughed into the kiss before Mike stuck his tongue down Grantaire’s throat and demanded his full attention, trying to tug his shirt off from behind but only being able to effectively bunch the material in clumps beneath his fists.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom. They barely even made it to the living room. If they didn’t have a wind machine they at least could rut against each other on the floor of his sparse apartment three minutes away from Graceland like a couple of horny teenagers anyway.

* * *

Donnie shifted in the hot seat of his car as the sun blared down on the window shield. Man, he'd missed the sun. The air was just on the side of muggy, reminding him of his home back in Alabama, and the sun felt like a familiar tickle on his skin. He hadn’t been back home in years. The slow drawl of his accent was carried around like a worn ratty backpack and the jovialness of his laugh made him like a runaway they always warned about in those hallmark movies. Donnie was drunk on life and the pounding fists that came swinging with it. Had been since he' been in his first fight at the age of thirteen. 

He tapped his calloused fingers on the steering wheel in an inconsistent beat, hitting his thumb on the underside of the wheel on the random off beats, and squinted behind his sunglasses.

A black Mercedes pulled up to the curb with a silent approach. The gravel echoed as it cracked under the tires.

“Bingo.” He hummed to himself, sitting up making the leather seat beneath him squeak. The danger was pumping through his veins, making his lips twitch, trying to form a familiar smirk, and he felt his heart start to beat faster against his chest. Adrenaline was pumping through him. The elderly man stretch out of the Mercedes with elegance and Donnie's muscles in his shoulders bunched together, tight. Another man, much younger than the older man, stood with a poor imitation of the other man’s grace and his frown was pressed deep within his face. The older man was speaking, lecturing, as they walked into the dirty dank warehouse. Their expensive three-piece suits and designers shoes made them a fly in milk compared to the grimy area. Donnie didn’t really need to blend in. He should, the Cartel _and_ the Russians still wanted his head on a stake but if he played his cards right then he wouldn’t need to run into them at all. He might even get a chance to stop at Hector’s Tacos if he was lucky. There hadn’t been anywhere in New York that could compete with Hector’s Tacos. He scratched at his beard, his nails cutting away the nervous itch that had set in.

“Gentlemen,” The older man’s voice said through Donnie’s headphone. He tucked the other ear bud into his ear and pulled up his phone, flicking the video on so that he could see the room from the tiny pin camera. The older man was in perfect view of the camera, looking stern and unimpressed. The expression would have had some of the hardest drug lords cringing.

“Mr. Edwards,” one of the men said as a way of greeting and the camera spun to look at Fredric, Edwards’s top man. Donnie winced a little. They were definitely going to have to have a talk about subtly.  When Fredric had left New York, Donnie hadn’t thought much of it. He went when Edwards had other matters to deal with like some glorified representative with a gun. But when Jon had followed he knew something had been up. Edwards didn’t have many people under his thumb. Fredric and Jon were long trusted serving loyal employees that didn’t travel across the country to go on holiday. One gone was nothing. Two gone was the beginnings of a major gearshift.

“You remember my grandson, Marcus,” Edwards said making it sound more like a reproach then an introduction. The young man muttered a greeting though Donnie couldn’t see him. “So. Am I to believe that we are ready to move forward?”

“Yes, sir.” Jon nodded looking everything like the quiet ex-military man that he was. “The area is cleared to move operations in.”

“And any word on Odin Rossi?” Edwards asked. Fredric and Jon shared a look and Donnie could practically feel Edwards impatience all the way out in the street.

“We’re still looking. There hasn’t been word from Bello and we’re well past the time frame set up for his current _predicament._  With all of his previous employees either killed or in police custody after Caza sent their man after…”

Edwards waved dismissively and took some of the files that littered the worn wooden crate with coffee mugs and a lantern. Donnie took note of the possible base Jon and Fredric were setting up, scrawling the address with his scratchy handwriting.

Donnie glanced around the deserted street with a suspicious glare before turning back to his phone.

“Consider all ties to Bello cut,” Edwards said with a frown. “We can’t very well do business with a caged rat. How do you suppose we find this _Odin_ if your only solid lead is incarcerated?”

“The FBI are clearing out all the small Caza units that could lead us to him but most of the small time dealers on the street that may have been connected to Bello are in FBI custody. Which is---“

“Irrelevant to the question I asked you,” Edwards said cutting off Fredric. "I don't care if the FBI is clearing out the space. That simply means my job is easier. You're job is to find Odin like I asked."

Again Jon and Fredric glanced at one another and Edwards snapped the file closed. “Is there something you two would like to explain to me?”

“We---“ Fredric began but again Edwards’s cool voice cut through the air like a knife.

“Perhaps you would like to explain how one drug dealer has been able to evade a seemingly well organized military search requesting his services.” The camera jolted at the sharp tone. Jon pressed his mouth into a thin line. “Or the fact that we have seemingly cut off his supply line and prior customers by having the FBI clear the area for our purposes and he still seems to remain a mystery to you two. Meanwhile, you continue to use my time, patience, and money and I assure you, gentlemen, two of the three are running very thin.”

“He’s gone cold.” Jon protested. “We have men listening in for anything but so far it seems like he’s just vanished. There hasn’t been word of him in over six months.”

“He was one of the top supplies on the west coast with the highest grossing income solely from cheap toxic _shit_ they pass as drugs here alone. I assure you, he has not simply retired for the evening. Now find him or I will find someone else who will.”

Donnie pressed his lips in a tight line and tore his gaze from his phone to the street. Edwards, still as elegant on the grimy street, got back into his car and waited for his grandson to follow him before he drove off.

Donnie relaxed his arm outside the window, started his truck, and pulled down the street.

* * *

“Definitely not a wind machine.” Grantaire sighed rolling off of Mike. His head felt dizzy for a moment at the sudden shift and he let his eyes go in and out of focus as he stared up at the random paint patterns on his ceiling.

Mike didn’t respond, settling for making a small noise at the back of his throat, boneless on the carpet. Grantaire’s lips twitched into a smile and he folded his hand to rest in the small of Mike’s back, his fingertips grazing the smooth sweaty skin. Mike shivered beneath his touch and rolled over. Curling against Grantaire’s side he rested his head over Grantaire's chest. Grantaire hummed and bent down to kiss the damp dirty blond locks that had clumped into a wild mess of sex hair after a session with Grantaire’s hands. He moved his arm to wrap around Mike and smoothed down as much of the rumple as he could.

“How did you get an apartment this quickly?” Mike asked, glancing around as if he only just realized where he was.

“My natural charisma and speedy background check?” Grantaire pointedly stared at the couch that had been left with the apartment. The bare walls and off white carpet were a far cry from the hardwood beach house décor that was at Graceland but Grantaire was technically still on an active assignment. He had to wait a little longer for the former mob boss trying to sell possible nuclear secrets that were deemed too unreliable to leave for chance to be pronounced dead and for the cover story to come out before he could be debriefed. _Then_ , and only then, he was going to call in that favor his handler owed him because Serbia was a bitch and a half. He deserved a little R&R or at least as much as he could get so he could assist Mike on those buses. Then they could go home, wherever that was because he got the feeling that it was going to come into question soon. Mike had thrived in D.C. but it wasn’t the same. They had both pretended not to notice the distinct lacking they felt and even being back in the California sun for less than a week was easing the itch that had set in his skin.

Mike hummed and the sound traveled into Grantaire’s chest sending a warm feeling to coil in his stomach. He trailed his fingers lightly over Mike’s shoulder, patterning his skin with random designs and swirling down to his elbow and back up. Goosebumps appeared beneath his touch and he moved his arm to wrap around his waist. Mike threw his arm over his chest and let Grantaire pull him closer, allowing the comfortable silence to rest over them until the heat from outside began to make them sweat.

“So tell me about the buses. What do you got so far?” Grantaire asked, resting his head on his free hand. The harsh carpet cut into his back just on the side of uncomfortable but he wasn’t going to move if he didn’t have to. Once Mike started on the case these moments were going to be rare.  He was going to savory it while he could get it.

“Well,” Mike said rolling his head to rest on Grantaire’s chest. “We have the drugs. We have the measurements. We definitely have a means in which they are getting in through border control.”

Grantaire scowled, remembering a rather unpleasant evening where he got a phone call from his boyfriend, barely consolable and having nightmares of watching him suffocate all for the sake of some stupid buses, but Mike didn't notice. 

“What we don’t have is a how or a who?” Mike’s brow furrowed in frustration and he shook his head. “No, we know how. It’s the buses but I mean we don’t know how in the sense that we don’t know how the buses play into it other than transport. We’ve tried everything from cargo holds to false bottoms.”

“Well,” Grantaire blew a long breath from his between his lips as he pushed one of his inky curls out of his face. “I'm not usually involved with that part of an op but I would say that it may not necessarily be the buses. It’s more so the mules.”

“I'm waiting for the security cameras to send their records to see if I can find a hand off that can be tied to the bus line but that could lead to all kinds of loose ends.”

Grantaire tutted his tongue against the top of his mouth. “You’re still thinking about the bus line though.”

“It’s obviously important.” Mike argued, rising to a sitting position. “They wouldn’t have been…”

He stuttered and dropped his head, embarrassed before he shook whatever mental argument had been going on. “They wouldn’t have been coming after me and specifically asked about the bus line if it didn’t mean _something_.”

“And I get that, I do, but maybe you have to look at it two steps ahead and work your way backwards.” Grantaire insisted sitting up as well. “Look we have to see this as the big picture for a second and work another angle.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all. We can't make a big picture if we don't know what's in it! That's too many variables! Why would you _logically_ \---“ Mike’s hackles were raised and Grantaire felt the familiar bitter taste in his mouth of an argument starting to form.

“You mean why would I _logically_ look at the possible weather patterns, chances of wind change, suggested back up perches, and blind points before I even picked my perch when I’m on an op? Because, of course, why would anyone want to factor in the human element into an equation of something that standard. Not to mention the unreliable variable as well that would effect said human element.” He crossed his arms over his chest and Mike’s jaw dropped in that frustratingly beautiful way it did whenever Grantaire wasn’t making any sense to him. Mike was linear and consistent but Grantaire was erratic and his thoughts jumped back and forth before returning ten steps back in the argument. He was a controlled chaos to Mike's reliable rationality.

“Look...” Grantaire paused and chewed aggressively on his thoughts before he turned them into words. “What do you know? You know that you have these drugs coming in on buses from Mexico but they aren’t Caza. You know that they are slipping through the border control seemingly undetected because you aren’t finding them until after they’ve crossed over. But you also know someone who is not Caza kidnapped you to find out what you knew which led to the FBI going on an all out witch hunt on the cartel.”

“You think someone wanted us to go after Caza?” Mike frowned. Grantaire shrugged.

“I think your number one suspect in drug trafficking has been knocked off the list of top suppliers especially if you hit them so hard that they were desperate enough to reach out to you guys. The fact that they even let Briggs come back from Mexico in one piece proves that. I think there's a big name who hasn't put their signature on the painting yet.” Mike didn’t say anything and for a moment they sat opposite one another, their shoulders barely touching. Mike growled and shoved the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“None of this makes any sense. We have all these pieces and none of them fit! We still don’t know how they’re getting on the buses and the mules that…” Mike stopped and Grantaire lifted a brow.

“Did Apollo finally break?” He asked teasingly after several minutes of silence. Mike’s eyes narrowed together and Grantaire could see the crawl of irritation flush Mike’s face.

“No, Enj, don't fight it,” he said. "Just talk."

Mike screwed up his face in distaste and Grantaire took his hand, wiping the grimace away. He'd seen this before, when the filter fought to control the words that flowed so easily out of Mike.

“Caza are the only ones that traffic through Mexico," Mike said carefully. "I mean Bello, unless we were directly buying from Caza, had to find different areas for transfer when we had other suppliers. There was a whole fiasco with a submarine that was rigged with explosives at one point...Because it was Nigerian heroin, Caza only served as a middle man.” Grantaire leaned against the cool wall, his sweaty skin sticking to the old paint as Mike tapped his thumb against Grantaire’s knuckle thoughtfully. “Even Petrovich had to go through the ports.”

Grantaire nodded, a small smile that Mike didn’t notice on his lip. That had been the case where Enjolras and Grantaire had brought them together.

“Right. He would have had to pay Caza a criminally high service fee if he had them shipped over the border. Trucks are cheaper than boats but Caza would have had a cut of the profit. So someone’s bringing in the drugs under Caza’s nose and then coming over here,” Grantaire said squeezing Mike’s hands. “They can’t just magically appear, right? And if we've ruled out Caza's supplies that means that they're coming from somewhere across the ocean. The Nigerian trade is laying low since the heat with Bello and are strictly importing into the Mediterranean."

Grantaire was the face of innocence at Mike's suspicious glare.

"Do I want to know?" Mike asked.

"Nope," Grantaire said and kissed his nose. "Anyway that means you're most likely dealing with European. There are plenty of organizations that would use willing girls to swallow balloons for them with a bogus passport and a ticket into the states.”

Mike pulled his hands away and twisted to snatch his pants that had been thrown somewhere in their stumbling into the living room.

Grantaire slid his hand up Mike’s thigh, kneading the muscle with his thumb, as Mike turned around with his cellphone. “What are you doing?”

“Calling George. He’s consulted with Scotland Yard a couple of times. I’m going to see if they have any---“Mike stopped speaking with his lips half curved in the form of a word as realization shone through his blue eyes. 

"Oh?" Grantaire couldn't help himself as he kept massaging Mike’s thigh, thumb teasingly rising and then falling. He leaned forward to kiss the confusion off his face with a soft kiss. Mike had a sheepish flush when he pulled back and a small smile curled onto Grantaire's face. 

"Yes?" He hummed brushing a strand of hair back as he cupped Mike's cheek. 

"This isn't romantic," he said with a hint of an apology. Grabbing Mike around the hips, Grantaire pulled him closer and peppered kisses along his jaw. Mike shivered against the nip of Grantaire's teeth. 

"No. But it's ok," Grantaire said in between his workings. "We haven't been to the bedroom yet. You can make it up to me there."

Mike twisted his head so he could chase after Grantaire's lips and kissed him hard, a tame version of the same kiss they had shared when Mike had nearly kicked his door down. His feather touches turned into strong solid weights on Mike’s back as he leaned forward and kissed back, bracing Mike to keep him from falling over, as Mike’s arms circled his neck.

The kiss kept changing, soft and tender to hard and passionate, erratic as their heartbeats.

Grantaire jumped when the sound of an all too familiar generic ringtone blared in his ear. Wrenching his lips away, he twisted his head and glared at Mike’s phone, still curled in his hand.

“It’s Paige.” Mike sighed, his shoulders deflating almost instantly as the weight of the world outside of Grantaire’s apartment came crashing down and breaking the mood. Grantaire frowned but said nothing. When he was debriefed and could see his former housemates again he planned on finding out what really had been going on that had caused all of the tension among them.

“Yeah,” Mike said as an answer, phone pressed to his ear. His breath hitched when Grantaire’s tongue made contact with his skin. Grantaire nipped at him, letting his teeth slowly craze the skin, and smiled against the bight mark.

“No, I’m fine… Yeah…” Mike scowled down at him but made no move to push him away. Grantaire raised a brow in response. “What... Yeah, no. I can be right there.”

Grantaire pulled away and Mike wrapped a hand around his arm to keep him close.

“On my way. Bye.” Mike ended the call and dropped his head against Grantaire’s shoulder with a groan.

“Paige’s has a case to finish up that I told her I would help her on.” His voice was muffled by Grantaire's skin.

“I thought the others got pulled from their regular assignments,” Grantaire said like a question. Mike sighed and the soft tickle of his eyelashes on Grantaire’s skin made him shiver.

“They did. But Paige asked to finish this one." Mike all but purred as Grantaire traced idle patterns into the small of Mike’s back, pressing his forehead further into the crook of his neck. “I figured if she can finish this one the others would stop dragging their feet.”

“It still hasn’t gotten any better over there?” Grantaire asked. Mike made a noise that sounded like a mix between a groan and a frustrated no.

“Is it really difficult to expect them to do their jobs? This is literally the whole point of Graceland.” Grantaire patted the still languid Mike and pressed his cheek into dirty blond hair.

“Maybe there’s something else going?” He tried.

“What?” Mike flopped his arm uselessly beside them. “What is it? No one is _talking to me._ ”

Grantaire shrugged but said nothing and they waited a few more minutes before Mike glanced at his phone.

“The buy’s going down in thirty minutes.” With another sigh, his warm breath flowing down Grantaire’s chest, Mike stood. “Can I borrow your shower?”

“I suppose,” Grantaire said, a fake pout pulling at his lips. His fake pout turned into a real pout though when Mike walked into the bedroom. When the sound of the shower turned on, he dropped his arms to his side and glanced around the empty apartment. He wanted to be with Mike, whenever he wanted, and not sneaking around like a couple of teenagers in high school. But he went wherever Mike went, and if that meant he had to hide from his friends and could only see his boyfriend for a couple of hours every other day then so be it.

“If you don’t hurry up,” Mike said peeking from around the doorway with an entirely too smug expression that demanded to be kissed off immediately. “We won’t be able to try the bathroom---”

Grantaire dragged him from the doorway before he could finish.

* * *

“Mike,” Paige said bouncing over to him as she tugged her pants off and threw on a skirt at the same time. Kissing him on the cheek, she used his arm to balance herself as she all but kicked her pants away. “Thank you. The lip reader was perfect.”

Then with a knowing smirk Paige tugged at a strand of Mike’s hair and waggled her eyebrows at him. “Nice hair.”

Mike glowered at her but Paige bound over to Bates by the window. Snatching his gum from him she gave him a wink and turned around to check that her comm worked.

“Who’s running op?” Mike asked already making camp behind the desk and inspecting the monitors.

“You always did look nice in headphones,” Paige said smacking her gum between her teeth. “You ready?”

Bates turned back to the window, holding up his binoculars as he peered through the old dusty shades. “Whenever you are.”

Paige ruffled his hair and strutted out with a confidence that oozed into the room. Everyone in the room straightened and Mike felt the buzz of energy run through him. She’d been working on this case tirelessly and there was nothing like feeling the end nearing. It was so close she could almost taste it.

“What’s with the uniforms?” Mike asked watching as Paige walked across the street on the monitor. Bates glanced over at him and then down at his shirt with a smile.

“Softball game.” Mike hummed a response.

“Paige!” Finch’s voice squeaked over the speaker.

“Needed to find something to do since everyone else seems to have some role in your case,” Bates said. The aloofness in his voice didn’t mask the clear sting in his words. “All except for me, of course.”

“I haven’t decided anything,” Mike said but Bates gave a bitter scoff.

“Yeah. Ok.” He shook his head. Both of them tensed as they heard crashing and cursing but then Paige’s voice filtered through the blaring music and Bates let out an appraising whistle.

“It’s nothing personal,” Mike said relaxing. “I know Jakes better. I haven’t worked with you, seen your style, or---“

“Wouldn’t that be the definition of personal?” Bates cut him off and Mike refused to sink into his seat and back down. Bates may have been older, had more experience than Mike, but it didn’t change the fact that Jakes was someone he could trust to do his job. Pressing his lip into a firm line he turned back to the monitor.

Once during a disastrous fight between him and Grantaire, which had ended with a thrown glass by Mike and a drunk CIA agent, Grantaire had accused him of having trust issues. The ability to fall and simply know that someone was going to be there to catch him wasn’t something that Mike felt. Enjolras fought against his instincts to cover himself with a metaphorical security blanket. But it was different for him. Enjolras had friends he was willing to die with, friends that had proven countless times that they would catch him if he fell, with values and opinions he held in higher regard than his own. Mike had himself. He’d never had what Enjolras had. He trusted Grantaire with his life but still kept up some of his walls in case he was pushed, and Grantaire had felt it even then. It was a survival instinct that wasn’t going to go away.

“---Looks hungry.”

Mike held up the walkie-talkie to his lips as he stood. “Alright. That’s a go, guys.”

The tactical team and squad cars moved together as a cohesive movement. Paige did have a knack for orchestrating her operations like an opera, her magical pinkie finger like a conductor’s baton.

“You son of a bitch!” Paige screeched and then there was a crash and glass breaking.

Bates was running before his binoculars hit the ground. Paige threw herself out the window and chased after Moreno, screaming at him as she followed. It would have been hilarious. Moreno was a giant, Paige was gaining on him, and Moreno looked _terrified_ but Mike was racing out the base with his gun drawn anyway. He only caught Paige jumping on Moreno, wrapping her legs and arms around him, before he threw Paige to the ground. Bates tackled Moreno around his waist, toppling the taller man over but Moreno rolled with the tackle and pinned Bates under him, raising his fist. Mike pumped his arms and legs as he sprinted across the street and used his shoulder to catch Moreno in the ribs. Moreno toppled over but his arm fell on Mike’s head and a wild fist wrapped around the back of his t-shirt. With practiced ease, Mike rammed his elbow into Moreno’s kidneys and even though the fight was messy, the defensive move was enough for Mike to get free. What he hadn’t seen through was Moreno’s hand wrapped around his ankle and pull hard until it was too late. His legs pulled from under him and he fell, hitting the concrete before he could catch himself. His head met the ground with a sickening crack.

Bates launched himself at Moreno and slapped handcuffs on the man’s wrists, barking orders and kicking Moreno’s legs off of Mike’s where they had tangled together in a mess of limbs.

“Are you ok?” Paige was by his side in an instant and Mike blinked up at her, his vision swimming.

“Fine.” He grimaced. “Put your hands on your head.”

“You’re…” Paige tried to say but Mike forced himself to stand. The world lurched dangerously to the side and strong hands caught him before he could fall over again.

“I’ve got it from here. C’mon sit down.” Bates was saying, both helping Mike sit down and keeping a knee pinned in the small of Moreno’s back. Mike grabbed Paige’s wrist as he was forced to ground. Slapping his cuffs on her, he moved her to the side and then put his head in hands, squeezing his eyes shut from the swirling blend of colors.

A cold water bottle was pressed to the back of his neck and someone was probing at the growing knot hidden beneath his hairline but he must have lost track of time because the next thing he knew, Bates’s familiar scuffed tennis shoes stepped in front of him.

“C’mon, Levi.” It spoke volumes of Mike’s headache that he didn’t scowl at the nickname as he peered up at Bates. He shoved a hand through his hair and smiled down at him. Holding up his keys, Bates waved. Mike tried not to wince as the keys hit each other but the sound was grating and the pain in his skull flared.

Pointing his thumb to the paramedics that Mike didn’t notice before he explained, “Docs say you probably got a mild concussion but you know protocol.”

Mike nodded. Unless life threatening, they were suppose to go back to Graceland and then go into the ER with one of their basic covers. He remembered one time when Charlie had sliced her hand open when two drug dealers had gone at it, Jakes had driven her to the hospital that night muttering under his breath about “the stupidity of bureaucratic bullshit”, and sat with her the four hours it took to get her six stitches. No one liked clinic duty.

“I’ve got the honor of taking you home with me,” Bates said raising a teasing eyebrow.

Mike scoffed and stood with a groan, ignoring the offered hand. “Before dinner?”

“I’m on the clock. It’ll have to be a quickie.” Bates sent him a wolfish grin as he waved to a couple of the agents that passed. Mike pretended not to notice how the DEA agent was matching his slow pace as if afraid that Mike could just kneel over any second. He was touched, but all he wanted was his bed, and so he forced his legs to walk faster despite the achiness that was settling through his body.

“What’s a guy like you into anyway?” Bates asked. “The FBI handbook is all good for commitment but can it hold you at night? Can it keep you warm against the cold of D.C. winters?”

“Get in the car, Zelanski,” Mike said, opening the passenger seat and sliding in. Bates held his chest, a wounded sound whining through his teeth before it broke off into a laugh and he dropped into the front seat. The car jostled under the sudden drop in weight but Bates was starting the car and driving away towards Graceland before Mike could vomit on his shoes. Definitely a concussion. Mike winced as he let his head fall back onto the headrest.

“Listen,” Bates said after several minutes of thick silence. His tone was serious, losing some of the teasing hints he usually spoke with. “Thanks for earlier… With Moreno.”

“You had him right where you wanted him.” Mike echoed similar words to the DEA agent he had heard before and Bates’s smirked as they turned down a random street. “Thanks for saving me the leftovers.”

“We’ve got to do a heat run if you want to sleep.” Again Bates turned the car with practiced ease on another street that was going to take them back three blocks. Instead of arguing, Mike nodded with a sigh. Relaxing into the seat, Mike let his eyes slip shut, losing himself in the darkness behind his eyelids before his phone rang, loudly and all together painfully. With an annoyed growl, Mike struggled to pull his phone from his pocket, his arms wrestling with the seatbelt.

Blearily, Mike stared at the screen and answered with a pained smile. “George.”

“Mike,” George’s voice curled over the phone in that pleasant calming way. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Not at all. What do you got for me?” Bates casted a curious glance over at him but remained silent as he circled around a shopping mall.

“I checked with my contacts at Scotland Yard and it would seem that you were on to something.” Mike nodded into the phone even though George couldn’t see him and slammed the sun visor down in front of him, blocking out the rays of sun that made his skull feel like a jackhammer was ramming into his eye.

“There’s been an increase of _business_ back and forth between the Irish Mob and the Westies in New York. Apparently there have been talks of a split between the families and sides are drawing supplies. Customs has been working on slowing down the shipments but… well...” George shifted from the other side phone. “Well, it’s almost like they stopped completely. And just recently. The inspector I work with told me that they followed a line of investigation that linked drug trafficking to your part of the world that fed to New York and then over here but it’s as if a business closed! There’s nothing.”

“Bello did some work with the head of the families, didn’t he?” Mike asked with a frown. He heard George attest with a thoughtful hum and what sounded like a long drag of a cigarette. Nasty habit, he had said when they had met for the first time.

"Not enough to completely stop trading," George said. "He wasn't as influential to make the families suddenly turn to the side of good with his incarceration if that's what you're asking."

He spoke as if he knew the workings intimately. The Westies and the Irish Mob ties were messy, hard to follow on a good day. Even in New York it was difficult to draw a line in the sand between the families.

The thought struck Mike at the same time Bates was starting to pull onto the free way.

“You weren’t really in New York for a lecture series,” Mike said. It wasn’t phrased like a question because he already knew the answer.

“No,” George said anyway. “Scotland Yard can’t investigate in the states without the express permission of both governments but that didn’t mean I couldn’t go and do a little digging myself.”

“Except for the fact that you could have gotten yourself killed if anyone knew what you were doing there.” Bates sent another dubious glance over at Mike but he ignored him. “That was stupid.”

“Yes, well, sometimes the necessary thing to do is the stupidest. I don’t condone it but I’d personally rather it be me that does the snooping in that case. I didn’t find anything either way. All I got was a couple of business cards and the name of a drug dealer that was giving the FBI the run around,” George said unfazed by Mike’s disapproval. “Someone by the name of Odin Rossi but that’s been all but a ghost.”

“Odin?” Mike asked perking up in his seat despite his head. Bates wasn’t even hiding his confused interest anymore. “Are you sure they said Odin Rossi?”

“Yes,” George said. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“He gave us the slip during the Bello case but he was one of our biggest suppliers.” Mike left out the part where Charlie had been almost obsessed that Briggs was in fact Odin and the complete shit storm the house had whirled into after because Bates was now openly listening to the conversation. Charlie had been devastated after and she was only just starting to forgive herself. There wasn’t any reason to mention it when the dust was settling.

Pressing his phone to his ear he peered out the window and watched as the familiar stretch of beach came into view. “Do you remember who was asking about Odin?”

“I’ll have to look at my notes again,” George said. “I’ll see what I have and give you a call later.”

“Thanks, George.” After they said their goodbyes, Mike felt a vigorous burst of energy thrill through his veins. The beginning of a timeline was starting to form and they had a name. A name he knew all to well. He would have to kiss Grantaire later for helping him piece together the tie to the European route.

Mike smothered a groan before it could escape.  Grantaire. He was going to have to explain his concussion and then explain why he forgot to tell him about it until--- he glanced at the clock--- three hours after it happened. “Shit.”

“Everything alright?” Bates asked, confusion twisting his face into a frown that didn’t seem right on his usually mischievous face.

“Yeah,” Mike said with a sigh twirling his phone in his hands, looking down at it thoughtfully. Well, he could always forget all together. Maybe Grantaire wouldn’t find out. No, that was stupid. Grantaire had a sixth sense for that sort of thing. He’d find out anyway. But, Mike could wait until he did. Then he could at least get some work done on this new lead before Grantaire forced fed Mike some painkillers and made him sleep. He could explain later when the whole thing was irrelevant because he had a name! He’ll make breakfast for Grantaire to make up for it!

“I didn’t know you took on Odin too.” Bates kept his eyes glued on the road but Mike could practically feel the peaked interest struggling to break free. Mike felt like the stupid kid who didn’t want to share his best friend and sighed. He wasn’t being reasonable with Bates. Zelanski could be an asset and he was shutting him out because he didn’t like the fact that he took his place at Graceland. Mike had never been territorial before but seeing  “Better Mike” on the chore wheel had bruised his ego and he was taking it out on the DEA agent.

“I helped on the case for it. Bello worked with all kind of suppliers but Odin was the only one that we didn’t have a face on. We got close but…He jumped me from behind.” Bates turned wide eyes off the road to Mike and the car shifted to the right suddenly. Bates spun around with a curse and ignored the loud honk from the car beside them.

“Wait, so you actually saw the guy? You met Odin in person!” Mike shook his head and released his hold of the handle on the door, his fingers clenched in a lose fist as he tried to make his vision stop swimming.

“No,” he said. “He knocked me out before I could see his face. I broke a couple of his ribs I think but… that was only time I saw him.”

Bates nodded but didn’t say anything and Mike felt that achiness of his bruised ego again. “Bello did a lot of dealings with him though.”

“Jesus man,” Bates whistled appreciatively. “No wonder the others talked about you like you died or something!”

Mike’s eyes narrowed and Bates smirked at him almost sheepishly.

“They were kind of messed up when I came around. Kept talking about you and some other guy that used to live in the house but you were like their mascot or… god or something.”

_Apollo,_ the voice in his head supplied that sounded similar to Grantaire’s teasing one. 

Mike didn’t know what to say to that and instead stared out at the water, the sun lowering in the sky. Graceland had been very different then. He didn’t feel much like an Apollo now.

“Few more minutes, man.” Bates promised, turning for one last heat run. Mike nodded and let his eyes slip shut to sleep off some of his headache.


	2. Chapter 2

Graceland used to be a place to relax, a safe haven for federal agents to come and kick off their shoes. It was a second chance. That was until the whirlwind that was FBI Agent Mike Warren came flying through the front door. 

Mike had a natural eagerness that was easy to get behind but after about the first five minutes, it was grating on the nerves. Mike never _stopped._ When most people would be thrown with exhaustion, he was standing or pacing or flipping through a file and strategizing. He ran himself into the ground and only stopped when his foot got caught in the mud. What his superiors called drive, Briggs called self-deprecating. If Mike continued to keep setting these impossible standards for himself, he was going to drive himself right into a pit that he wasn't going to be able to get out of and it was going to get him killed. The need to please was debilitating and it was a hole that was never going to get filled. He’d thought Mike had been getting better but he could see D.C. had only made the hole bigger. Before, when he’d been living the life of three different men, Paul Briggs, Odin, and the real Paul, he might have throttled the stupidity out of his trainee, seniority or not. Real Paul had been a mess, Odin was a drug dealer, and Paul Briggs was a lie.  He knew a lot about holes leading to the soul. It was a deep festering itch that never went away.

“Hey Jon,” Briggs said jogging into the kitchen. The sunset was shining through the windows of the kitchen.  Johnny was inhaling a bowl of cereal and waved his spoon in a form of greeting.

“You going to do your Buddha shit?” Johnny asked around a mouthful cereal. Flecks of sodden cereal and spit flew from Johnny’s mouth when Briggs flicked him on the ear. “Jesus, man! I’m sorry! Are you going to go do… whatever meditating thing you do?”

“I was thinking about it.” Johnny met Briggs scowl with a grin that was all cheek.

“Yeah? What’s stopping you?” He asked, picking up the banter and waving it like it was a kite.

“Well, slapping you with that spoon for spitting all over the counter is number one.”

“Paige is under the cleaning on the chore wheel so…” Letting the sentence hang in the air, Johnny took a large obnoxious bite of his cereal, milk dripping on the counter. “Did you leave Mikey at the hospital or something?”

Briggs swiveled on his heel slowly and his brow rose as he pulled a water bottle from fridge. “No. Why would Mike be at the hospital?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Johnny asked, stirring his spoon before catching the last of few flakes of cereal and slurping it into his mouth. “He was helping Paige finish up that case with that twitchy dude and one of the guys took him down.”

“I did _not_ hear about this,” Briggs said with his hands held up. Johnny shrugged and started to bring spoonfuls of milk to his mouth. Briggs waited a total of three slurping mouthfuls before he lost his patience.

“Well?” He asked incredulously. “Is he ok? Did he get shot? Is he dead? What Johnny?”

“I don’t know!” Johnny exclaimed. “Why are you yelling at me? I thought he was with you! Bates brought him home for someone to tag team the ER with him.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

Johnny gapped at him, searching the room for some explanation as to why he was being the one yelled at when he wasn’t even there when it happened. “Are you serious? I found out… like two hours ago. I just got back home from handing off my case load. I thought he was with you!” He repeated. Briggs rolled his eyes, reigning in his snarky comeback for when Johnny actually deserved it and turned back to the stairs. He now had the honor of running clinic duty with Mike who had been waiting for someone to take him to the ER since that afternoon apparently. He hated clinic duty! Opening the door to Mike's room though, Briggs frowned. The bed wasn’t made, covers tossed to the side and pillow smashed from someone’s head, but empty all the same.

“Mike?” He called walking over to the bathroom door. Knocking, he let himself in only to find an empty room as well. “Michael? C’mon! Time for a trip to the clinic. I know how much you love them.”

Frowning, Briggs returned to the kitchen as Johnny cleaned out his bowl and spoon. “Did he go with Charlie?”

Johnny shrugged. As if she had heard her name and came running, the front door opened and Charlie’s voice rang throughout the living room.

“Hello?” Charlie peeked her head into the kitchen, sunglasses perched on the end of her nose as she looked around the brick column. “Paige called me. Where’s Mikey?”

“He’s not with you?” Johnny asked. Running a hand through her long dark hair, Charlie pushed her sunglasses onto her head and walked into the kitchen.

“No, he’s not with me. What? Is he hiding or something because I swear getting you three to go to the doctor is like trying to make Wayne go celibate.”

“What?” Bates asked, walking into the kitchen with a disturbed expression on his face. Covered in sweat and sand, he swung around Charlie with a kiss to her cheek and snatched a glass from the drying rack.

“Hey, do you know where Mike is?” Johnny asked, leaning onto his elbows. Bates lifted a brow as he moved to the sink.

“I… Isn’t he with Jakes?” He asked, his voice rough from breathing heavily during his run, his eyebrows knitting together.

“Didn't you bring him home?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly. Bates looked around as he leaned on the counter with his hip, fanning himself with his shirt. “I called Jakes and left a message. It’s his turn to do a clinic run and then I went and…”

He indicated his running clothes and his breath hitched every few words as he glanced around the kitchen, realizing the number of people and frowned.

“He’s not with Jakes?” Bates said, his voice reaching an octave higher in a question.

“No,” Briggs said. “Jakes is gone.”

“What?” The mingle of voices had a ring to it that made Brigg’s ears practically vibrate. He felt his pulse kick up, adrenaline starting to course though his veins. He’d seen Jakes twenty minutes before, congratulating him on his new life, where Jakes would have said something. Johnny shifted in his seat and turned his attention back down to his spoon.

“Paige?” Charlie asked more to Briggs than the others but Johnny shook his head.

“She’s still at the DEA office.”

Charlie glanced over at Bates. “He was concussed?”

Nodding, a grim line stretched across his mouth.

“Yeah,” he said. “Paramedics said was probably a mild one but he seemed pretty out of it.”

“That means he could have woken up and was confused where he was,” Charlie said, her lips puckering with worry. “He could have slipped out of the house and now he’s running around God knows where. Damnit, Wayne! You left him alone?”

Bates held his hands and backed up from Charlie’s glare. “I was told to bring him home! I didn’t know I was supposed babysit!”

“I’m going to look around for him.” Charlie exasperated, turning on her heel and making her way to the front door.

“I’ll take the beach. He couldn’t have gone far.” Bates swallowed the rest of his water in one last frantic gulp before he was heading downstairs towards the beach again.

“Wait up, man,” Johnny called, jumping from his stool and following after Bates. “I’ll come with you.”

“Stay here in case he comes back,” Charlie said pointing at Briggs and marched out of the house before he could follow. “I’m going to call Paige and see if she’s heard anything.”

And then, just like that, Briggs was alone in the kitchen. Blowing an aggressive sigh from his lungs he pulled out his phone and dialed Mike’s number. Voicemail.

* * *

“Hey, it’s me. Call me.” Grantaire hung up the phone with the worrying lines pulling his brow down. Mike had said he would call after the bust was done and had left the apartment with a promising kiss about spending the night. But that had been the last he had heard from him. It wasn’t unusual for Mike to forget to call, he had a tendency to focus solely on the thing in front of him, but after the third hour of no returned phone calls apologizing and rushed breathing saying he was on his way, Grantaire had started to worry. What if something had happened at the op? The others didn’t know he was back in town, they wouldn’t have known to call him if something happened. As far as they were concerned, R had left Graceland and was never to be seen or spoken of again. Their supervisors had been drilled about that.

He felt like a caged animal, pacing the apartment with an itch for a drink. He couldn’t go out and sneak into Mike’s room. He couldn't go looking for him. He couldn’t even be seen outside! He glared at the bright green numbers on the oven.

_12:47 am_

But what if something did happen? What if Mike had been shot or hit by a car or framed for murder or…

He was getting ahead of himself. But anything was possible when you were dating the love of your life that you knew in a past life and died for in said past life. You know, simpler times. Like when he had been placed in Graceland undercover, remembered a life about a man who died for a revolution he didn’t believe in as a sign of his unyielding love, and a brief stint of unemployment where he spent a couple of weeks trying to hunt down his other formerly dead friends.

Fuck simpler times.

Grantaire pulled his phone and dialed Mike’s number again.

* * *

“Stop dragging your feet, Marcus. You aren’t a toddler.” Donnie rubbed at his brow, pushing the brim of his baseball cap to hitch on the natural curve of his scalp. Edwards was a grade A jackass. Not including the criminal activity, if Donnie had him for a grandfather he probably would have been driven to drink. _E_ _xcessively_. Edwards wasn’t looking at the camera but he could see the disapproval clear as day.

Tapping a beat on the steering wheel, Donnie couldn’t help but feel the nervous energy that stifled the cab of his truck. Edwards wasn’t a patient man, one of his few flaws that made him seem slightly human, and Donnie had started to worry that he was going to have to head back to New York with nothing. Casting a glance, he checked his mirror and watched as the two men entered through the gated front door of the old restaurant. Music that was on the side of being too loud made Donnie grimace against the sound but he kept his headphones in. This meeting hadn’t been on Edwards’s itinerary and the phone call had been unexpected. Something was going down. Donnie could feel it. Edwards didn’t do spontaneous.

“Sir,” Fredric appeared in the view of the camera and ushered Edwards through the restaurant. Edwards didn’t say anything and Donnie scowled. They must have talked about what this was all about on the phone, which Donnie hadn’t gotten close enough too to bug yet. The white noise of the restaurant grew louder the further they moved through the room and with a nod to a woman, her black hair graying and her eyes stern, they moved into the kitchen. Chefs were muttering to themselves in a different language--- Vietnamese? Korean? Donnie couldn’t tell through the hush--- and keeping to themselves. A bus boy was staring but a sharp smack at the back of his head sent his eyes down to his feet.

“This way.” Fredric knocked an increment of three sharp knocks before one final flat rap of his knuckles. The door opened and Edwards walked through without another hesitation. The lighting from the kitchen, which had been clinical and grey, shifted suddenly into dimness that would almost be considered darkness. The brightness on Donnie's phone adjusted at the complete altered lighting and he still had to squint down at the screen to see.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Edwards said in lou of greeting to the room.  “I hear that you’ve discovered a link to the elusive Odin Rossi.”

Donnie cocked a brow at that. He hadn’t expect information to surface this soon but he wasn’t going to complain. The camera lingered on each of the faces in the room. Jon was standing in the corner with his arms crossed over his broad chest, Fredric beside him eying the two men Donnie didn’t recognize. One of the men nodded, sending a nervous glance over at Jon and then his friend.

“Well,” Edwards began after the silence hung heavy in the room like southern humidity.

“Yes.” One of the men squeaked. He goddamn squeaked and Donnie couldn’t really blame him. Edwards had a stare that could freeze fire. “This way… please.”

 _What the hell is going on?_ Donnie frowned as he felt the uneasiness crawl up his chest. Something wasn’t right. They didn’t have information, he realized, they were selling. They had something physical and it was decent enough to peak Edwards’s interest that he was willing to meet them in the middle of the night.

They followed the two men, Fredric and Jon flanking Edwards with Jon resting his hand on his gun at his hip, until they reached a freezer door in the back. The door screeched as the rusty hinges twisted when they opened it and Donnie cursed low and filthy.

He heard a sharp high-pitched gasp and Edwards threw an impatient scowl at Marcus. In the middle of the freezer, with their wrists tied to an old meat hook and hanging limp, was a body.

“Explain.” The man that had squeaked earlier seemed to relax when the command wasn’t barked at him but he wrung his hands in front of him.

“You asked for Odin Rossi---“ Donnie may have stopped breathing. No fucking way had Odin been some beaten scrawny kid that a couple of low lives had gotten the wool over. Edwards seemed the think the same thing.

“Are you expecting me to believe that this,” he waved his hand dismissively at the unconscious body. “Is Odin Rossi? Because Jon will be more than happy to demonstrate what happens to people who waste my time.”

Temper. It was the only saving grace that they had.

“No! Not Odin.” The man’s voice trembled as he stepped behind the body as if he thought Jon wouldn’t shoot through the innocent bystander to kill him. Donnie’s hand curled around his gun on the passenger seat and his camera shook, taking a step back from the scene.

“Steady,” Donnie said as a form of encouragement even though he knew that they couldn’t hear him. “Easy now. C’mon.”

“No. He’s FBI.” The man insisted. He was a dead man.

“Jon,” Edwards said and Jon pointed his gun but the other man stepped in front of the body and his friend with his hands trembling in front of him.

“Wait! Stop! Listen.” He turned and grabbed a handful of the unconscious body’s hair and lifted his--- definitely a he--- hair. “This man is an FBI agent who fought Odin Rossi. He’s seen his face! No one has seen his face! He has! And… And… According to…Well…”

“You have thirty seconds to finish your sentence before Jon places a bullet in between your eyes so I suggest you speak quickly.” The dangerous ice in Edwards’s voice sent a chill down Donnie’s spine. He was clutching his phone so tightly that his fingers ached.

“They said that he was connected with Bello and has seen Odin’s face and no one has seen Odin’s face except for this man.” It was true. Even Donnie had heard about the illusive Odin Rossi and how they had never been able to get a face on him or her. Odin had been a ghost from the beginning. The fact that this kid apparently had seen Odin and lived to tell the tale was a feat in and of itself. Edwards said nothing and the man cowering whimpered as the silence stretched on.

Then, Edwards stepped forward and the man let him close to the body. Donnie narrowed his eyes, trying to see in the dim lighting, until they were practically on top of his nose. The camera stepped closer and Donnie would have cheered but he was starting to feel that gnawing feeling deep in his gut that was worse than a night with a bottle of whiskey on an empty stomach. Edward’s hand lifted the head by the chin. The feeling, twisted into a pit of panic like the bottle of whiskey had been shattered and then stabbed into his stomach.

“Shit.” Donnie pushed a hand through his hair before he fumbled for the keys in his pocket. Switching hands on the phone, he threw his fist into his jean pockets, fishing and _goddamnit_ where were his keys?

Edward pressed his fingers into the unresponsive cheek and pushed the pliant head to the side. His touch traveled down to the bruise that marred the pale skin. The hickey that usually would have been hidden by a t-shirt on the kid’s collarbone was exposed and vulnerable like some kind of metaphorical chink in his armor.

“Find out who gave him this. I have a feeling this young man will prove a little stubborn. Pay these gentlemen and secure our purchase.”

Donnie threw the keys into his ignition and floored the truck out of park. Yanking the headphones out with one hand, Donnie dialed the number he needed and pressed his phone to his ear.

“Briggs,” Donnie said, his accent curling with stress. “It’s Donnie. I’m on my way to Graceland.”


	3. Chapter 3

Donnie pushed the brim of his baseball cap down, hunching further into the protection of his coat, as the clunking piece of shit car Briggs had brought to Graceland pulled up. Charlie’s arms were around his neck before he even dropped into the passenger seat.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, kissing her cheek with a smile. Casting a glance over her shoulder, Charlie twisted the steering wheel and drove down the street.

“Do a heat run.” Charlie said nothing, simply glancing over at him with that way her lips twisted down when she knew something was up, but turned the car in a heat run. She didn’t press during the extra five minutes but from the way her face pinched Donnie could tell she was running low on patience. He hadn’t heard much about the others after his transfer but word about the Jangles take down and the events leading up to it had spread, even to the DEA office in New York. Charlie was different when it came to the others. She couldn’t hold back. She could be pissed as hell at you and she would still kick down doors and break some faces when it came to those close to her. There was 'no getting what you deserved' with Charlie. You were family.

True enough, when Donnie walked through the front door of Graceland, inhaling the sandalwood and salt water of his former home, Charlie was on him like wolf.

“What’s going on Donnie?”

Briggs met them in three strides, coming from the shadows of the house into the barest of light that bled from the kitchen.

“Jesus, Chuck, let him walk through the door.” Charlie threw Briggs a scathing pointed look.  Donnie would have had to have been blind to miss the biting tension between the two and grimaced at being in the middle. He’d made a habit of staying out of the love triangles, circles, lines, of the house but it looked like some things never changed. They were all just too close not to fall on one another. Hell, it’d happened with Lauren. Briggs held out his hand to Donnie and pulled him into a hug that was short and almost rushed but he got it.

“What’s this about?”

Donnie blew a sharp breath from between his lips and scratched his beard nervously. “First, what I tell you, you have to understand that _technically_ I am not here. _Technically,_ I’m still on assignment in New York.”

“Spit it out, Donnie.” Charlie crossed her arms and Jesus for such a tiny woman she was terrifying.

“I will but I need you guys to understand that anything I say stays between me and you two. I can’t afford to let the whole house in on this.” Donnie pointed to himself and Charlie cocked a brow suspiciously. “You didn’t hear any of this from me. There’s too many people to control and if anyone gets wind that I’m around then my people are dead.”

Charlie and Briggs shared a look, communicating in that silent way he’d always teased them about, before they both nodded.

He sighed and then said, “I saw Mike.”

All hell broke lose.

“What? Is he alright? Where was he?” Charlie stepped forward but a troubled expression pasted over Briggs’s face and he held his hand out, silencing Charlie’s questions.

“What do you mean you saw, Mike?” He asked. Donnie bit the side of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.

“I saw him getting roughed up by a couple of guys on the street and---“

“You left him alone!” Charlie looked borderline murderous and Briggs turned dark but Donnie held up his hands defensively.

“Yes. But,” He added quickly when it looked like Charlie was actually going to strangle him. “I only caught the tail end of it. They took off. I tried to follow them but I lost them.”

“Where?” Charlie asked, her voice barely controlling the anger Donnie could see all over his face. “Where was he, Donnie? Did you get a good look at the guys? Were they wearing colors? Were they fucking shadow people? What?”

“I don’t know!” He hated lying. Especially to Charlie. 

“These people wouldn’t happen to be part of the case you’re _not_ working on would it?” Yes, but Donnie was still lying through his teeth.

“Oh, don’t give me that, Paul,” He said instead. Briggs bristled but before he could say anything Charlie placed a hand on his chest, her long thin fingers splayed across his heart. The touch had an immediate effect and Briggs eased back his hackles.

“Where was he, Donnie?” Charlie asked, her voice calming the tension in the room.

“I first saw them in an alley on Madison and Cliff. They lost me on 73.” Charlie nodded and smacked Briggs on the arm.

“C’mon. Donnie, stay here in case we need you again.” Charlie was already walking to the front door. “Paul get in the car and drive. I’m going to call Bates and Johnny.”

Donnie sent her a two-finger salute and waited until he heard the engine start before he relaxed. The air in his lungs huffed out of his cheeks when he let his chin hit his chest. This was not how his case was suppose to go! Lying to his friends, sending them on a wild goose chase, it was only going to distract them for so long. They were smart people and when they found out what he’d done they were going to be pissed! He was thinking on his feet, he was good at that but not when it risked the lives of the others. 

He was starting to feel incredibly alone. A feeling he often felt but was good at hiding. A feeling he was used to having. 

The third stair to the bottom that led up to the bedrooms squeaked and Donnie had his gun out, aiming into the shadows. The safety of a gun that hadn’t been Donnie’s clicked off.

“Where is he?” A voice asked, sounding dark and serious.

“No guns downstairs.” Donnie answered easily, searching the darkness for whoever was talking. He knew the voice well enough but couldn’t place it. It was a distant hazy timbre. He could feel the gun pointed at him like a burn on his skin but he wasn’t going to take his chances. He held his gun steady.

“Where. Is. He?” Every word was forced and nearing frantic but the deadliness in it would have sent shivers down anyone else’s spine. Donnie, however, felt the easy twist of  a smile turn on his lips. He definitely knew that conviction and he definitely knew that voice. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Donnie said. A quickstep and drop, Donnie ducked under the barrel of the gun and wrapped his arms around his upper waist. A hand snaked into Donnie’s shirt and pulled, dragging him back. Donnie swung his fist but the other guy ducked and used their momentum to spin them. He grunted as his back landed into the solid brick but Donnie turned the grunt into a breathy chuckle, holding his hands up.

“You’ve gotten better, Grantaire,” Donnie said. The kitchen light illuminated the side of Grantaire’s face and the sniper’s blue eyes widened when he could see Donnie’s features beneath the harsh cast of the shadows. A smirk pulled at the corner of Donnie’s mouth when he saw the recognition behind sober blue eyes.

“Last time I saw you, you were out cold in the corner,” he said, his accent thick as he mumbled. Grantaire narrowed his eyes, something flashing across them that Donnie couldn’t quite put his finger on, but then he was blank again.

“Last time I saw you, you were dead on the barricade,” Grantaire said with an odd twist of his lips. Donnie barked out a laugh and threw his arms around Grantaire’s neck, pounding the other man in the back.

“It’s good to see you made it, Grantaire.” Grantaire hugged back with a little less enthusiasm but equal conviction. Donnie could feel the smile form along his shoulder.

“You too, Bahorel,” Grantaire mumbled fondly into his shirt.

Donnie’s grin widened at the sharp curl of the French name on Grantaire’s tongue. His shoulders dropped from the rigid tension he hadn’t even realized he had been holding and for a moment the two old friends allowed themselves to fall into a silence. The silence was a comfort, their breathing the only sound that fell into an odd rhythm. It was strange and awkward but it felt right, warm and very much alive.

Donnie stepped back but neither seemed inclined to let go of the other. Even after all this time it was still hard to fight back the frantic panic that this feeling was as fleeting as a trapped bird and the other was a dream before them. More like a nightmare. Grantaire’s broad shoulders were strong beneath his hand and in a straight line like a man on a mission. And his gun… well, his gun was still in his hand unlike Donnie who had been quick to holster his weapon when he realized who he was facing.

“Still got your doubts, I see.” He muttered though there was a hint of fondness. The curl of a smirk was on Grantaire’s lips but he said nothing in return. But then, the smirk fell into a thin line and the flash passed over Grantaire again. It was like almost on the side of desperate but not quite there and it reminded him all to much of the feeling in his gut.

“Where is he?” His tone was enough for Donnie to know that Grantaire hadn’t bought into his cover from earlier. The instinct to lie, provide a decent distraction long enough to think of a plan, to protect, pulled his muscles tight like a string. But it was Grantaire asking. Grantaire who knew, who remembered, demanding answers. And then it clicked.

“If you remember then…”

“So does Mike.” He finished for him. Donnie swore low and under his breath. Enjolras was back. He never thought he'd see the day. 

“Then this just turned into shit.” Donnie scrubbed a hand through his beard. “Ok. I can’t explain here. Do you have somewhere---“

A sound clanged from downstairs and they jumped like a firecracker, guns leveled with the stairwell that led to the beach. Oh yeah, Donnie thought, his old friend was definitely keeping his own secrets because while Donnie had aimed his gun to stun, Grantaire was aimed to kill.

“37th and Raleigh Avenue. Meet me there.”

Johnny’s voice lifted up the stairs and he hadn’t even realized Grantaire had lowered his weapon until he was already smoothing his hoodie over it. Nodding, Donnie pushed the brim of his hat back down over his face and dropped back into the shadows.

* * *

Numbness never comes. One would think that after about the first hour, the pain would become like a lull and his body would shut down. That was what it’d been like before, when the first bullet had pierced his chest. He hadn’t felt the others. Often times he wondered if that first bullet, the one that had killed him, had been the one from the guard he had known. When he’d been a child and the world didn’t have a level of grime that needed cleaning, he had been friends with him once. But maybe they’d remained friends, separated by a glass wall of difference. The revolutionist bound by justice and the captain of the guard bound by duty. He’d seen where his friend had aimed and had known with a fleeting thought that the bullet had been his contribution to the revolution that his duty hadn’t allowed him to believe in. His bullet had been a medicine to ease the pain.

This was the opposite. His body was over stimulated with touch and thought. With each hit he had felt the bones in Jon’s hand. With each jerk of his body, he’d felt the roughness of the ropes around his wrists. With each flash of the camera, he was blinded. With each question, he met with pure stubborn silence.

“Where is Odin?” Jon’s hand returned around his throat, strong and controlled. The bastard didn’t even squeeze and Mike still trembled. He curled his hands into fist and locked his jaw shut. A slight pressure around his throat was enough to make him slide his eyes shut and his heart rate to turn rapid. But he said nothing and forced himself to take a breath of air. He could breathe. The hand was merely another tool to intimidate him.

“I like to rattle my guests,” the old man had said when he had first woken up to a cold bucket of water and a slap to his face. “I find it’s easier to open them up that way and I’ve been told by some reliable sources that the throat is a rather sensitive area for you.”

Jon had taken the first pictures then, when his face was alert and clear of bloody bruising, or at least what Mike thought had been the first. He couldn’t remember how long he had been out to be honest.

“If you answer our question, this all ends,” Fredric said with a slow bored fashion as he flipped through a file in his hands. Mike said nothing and Jon back handed him again.  He can compartmentalize the pain, that's not his problem. And every hit and split of skin can be absorbed. He'll be sore as hell but he'll live. But the inevitable sense of unbearable misery keeps his stomach tight with anticipation. Soon, fists and threats will be seen as inefficient. Mike couldn't even begin to imagine the lengths the old man, Edwards he had been told, was willing to go to, to get what he wants and what he wanted was something Mike was only pretending he had. He’d been forced to think quickly, shaking still from the water and the shock. He didn’t know where he was or how he got there and Mike hated not knowing. It made him feel exposed and easy to poke and prod. The only thing he could have, could grasp, was that these men thought he knew where Odin Rossi was and that somehow these men tied back to the men that George had talked about in New York. He had a connection. And now the trick was to find a way to get free.

“Fight back and I will make sure you never use your hand again,” Jon had warned him, resting his hand around Mike’s shooting hand. He had felt the callouses on Jon, the ones that come from a man who was used to firing a gun and perfecting the art form and so Mike could only trust that Jon would follow through on any threat he made from that point on. He needed to be able to shoot once he was free. And he knew that Jon recognized the same callouses on Mike's hand as well. 

But what was to happen when Edwards finally called Mike's bluff, his only source that kept him relevant? Alive. A bullet to the head wasn't a way he wanted to go. Not at least for something as pointless as thinking he had something he didn't. But perhaps that was Enjolras taking control. Enjolras stepping in front of Mike in a way that was a lot braver than Mike could ever imagine being. The ghost of Enjolras's memory was trying to save him and Mike couldn't help but feel like he was at war with himself because Mike didn't need saving. He could take care of himself. But getting the crap beat out of him hardly seemed like the time and so he shoved the two bickering memories deep in the back of his mind, a hand still curled around the coat tails of past Enjolras like a child saying, "Just... Don't go far enough away that you won't hear my cry."

 _Flash._ Another picture and then another fist.

* * *

“R?” Grantaire peeked around the fridge door, an easy smile sliding onto his face like a mask. Johnny raced across the kitchen, enveloping Grantaire in a bone-crushing hug. “What are you doing here?”

His friend smelled like sweat and salt water and when he let go, Johnny looked like he was considering hugging him again. Grantaire felt a small amount of the tension in his spine sooth away. It was easy to relax around Johnny, to trust him with your life even when in Grantaire’s line of work that wasn’t an option, but it was a nice feeling all the same. It also made lying to him that much harder.

“I just got in. Here to help with the buses.” Johnny was a trained FBI agent who could lie through his teeth when it came to drug dealers, murders, and gang bangers. But the moment he was around people he thought he could let his guard down, he was the worst liar known to man.

“Has anyone told you about Mike yet?” Johnny asked. Grantaire cocked a brow and went back to snatch a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. No. No one had told him anything about Mike and that was the problem. That was why he had burned his safe house and risking everything because no one was telling him _anything_ and something was seriously wrong. He could feel it. Feigning ignorance was going to be his best bet in hearing everything. He could sift through the information later.

“What? You mean how he and Briggs thought it was a great idea for him to dangle himself as bait? Oh, yeah. Mike told me.” He snarked. With a wink he pulled a dollar from his pocket it and dropped the bill into the fight jar hidden by the ceramic fish. A small smile pulled at Johnny’s lips but he looked troubled, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Casting a worried glance behind him, Grantaire followed his gaze.

“You must be the new guy.” Grantaire nodded and held out his hand. “Grégoire Rolland. FBI.”

“Wayne Zelanski. DEA,” Bates said, shaking Grantaire’s hand, his voice an edgy mumble. Grantaire played ignorance like a violin and leaned back.

“You can call me, R,” he said and Bates snorted softly.

“Nice pun.” Bates looked to Johnny and Grantaire studied the two of them thoughtfully.

“Something wrong?” He prodded and Johnny actually flinched.

“Bates,” Johnny said pointing at Grantaire, biting his lip. “R was here before with Mike... If you think Charlie and Briggs are bad you should have seen Mike and him. They _invented_ the fight jar.”

Bates’s eyes widened dramatically and he gaped for a moment.

“You mean?...  No fucking way!...You and Mike…” He struggled to find the right words. A blush crawled up his cheeks as he stammered. Then the realization dawned on him and he retreated away from the kitchen. “Johnny, I’m going to… yeah.”

Bates spun on his heel and ran from the room before Johnny could protest. If Grantaire’s brow could arch higher it did and he turned to Johnny with a tired tilt of his head.

“Something wrong?”

Johnny tapped his hands on the marble counter, his knuckles knocking a nervous pitter patter before he peered up at Grantaire.

“R,” he said and stopped for a beat. “Mike’s missing.”

Grantaire tried to remember the last time he had been truly angry, the last time he had been ready to kill someone with his bare hands and channeled that. His face felt a rush of heat crawl up and he narrowed his eyes. It wasn't hard. 

“I don’t know everything!” Johnny was quick to rush and he sent a curse in the direction Bates had left him. Grantaire could see why Mike hadn’t been a huge fan of the guy.

“Explain.” Grantaire bite the word out from between his teeth. He already knew this but Johnny didn’t know that and he needed to know the story from everyone if he was going to try and piece together what happened. Johnny leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest.

“He was helping Paige earlier.” The shower sex, the rushed heated kiss where Mike had been pressed against the door and Grantaire had held onto his hair before he had left, it all felt miles away. Real hot anger coiled in Grantaire’s gut and he curled a fist to control it. Johnny didn’t seem to notice but that may have been because he was staring at anything that wasn’t Grantaire.

“The guy took him down and he hit his head.” Johnny waved in the direction where Bates had disappeared to and sighed. “Bates brought him here for… you know a clinic run but we think he slipped out of the house and…”

This time Johnny looked Grantaire in the eye and he felt some of his anger wash away with the same ease he always felt with Johnny.

“Charlie says that they think that Mike might have run into some trouble.” Johnny sucked on his lip, licking over the red skin and running a hand over his short hair. Bates braved the kitchen then, peering in through the doorway. Shoving his hands into his pockets, jeans replacing his board shorts, Bates slumped against the brick.

“I shouldn’t have left him alone. That was my bad.” He cringed and Grantaire felt his nails dig into the palm of his hand.

“But don’t worry,” Johnny said, shaking off the seriousness for the sake of sincerity. “We’ll find him.”

“Do we have any idea who or where he may have gone too?” Grantaire sighed, running a rough hand through his dark curls.

“He talked to someone named George on the phone,” Bates said at the same time that Johnny shrugged. Johnny and Grantaire glanced curiously at Bates, making the DEA agent squirm. He nodded with a grim line on his face and shrugged. “I don’t know who he was but he had been talking about meeting up at some point. Maybe…?”

That would be a bit of a trip, Grantaire thought grimly. Unless George was back in the states. He would have to call Combeferre later but right now he needed to meet Bahorel and sort everything out.

“I don’t remember him talking about a George but I’m going to check his files. I saw them on the desk in his room. Go help Charlie and Briggs.” Johnny nodded and turned as Grantaire bound up the stairs.

Grantaire stopped at the edge of the staircase, listening as Johnny and Bates started to leave.

“So that’s R?” Bates’s voice filtered up into the bedrooms despite the whisper.

“Yeah.” Johnny replied and Grantaire could picture him nodding, that smile on his face.

“And he’s…?”

“He and Mikey are louder than Charlie and Briggs on a good night.”

Bates whistled with a chuckle. “So straight laced Mike Warren swings the other way, huh? I never would have guessed.”

“It’s weird, man. They just clicked. Presto. They were connected at the hip. Used to drive Jakes crazy because they would---”

And then the door closed and the house fell silent. Grantaire forced his hand to uncurl, his fingers aching from being in a tight fist for so long. Lying was never hard and that was the problem. Johnny was his friend. But something had happened to Mike and a means to an end could be overlooked so long as he could find him.

There were too many people that didn’t know what had happened. Too much information that was missing and he should have seen that before from Mike’s files. Slipping into Mike’s room he checked to make sure that his bags were tucked away from anyone who would walk in. Leaving his apartment meant he had to burn his alias completely and if he stopped for too long people could get hurt. Quickly, he grabbed Mike’s bags and threw them onto the bed. The old ratty blue suitcase and Mike's clothes weren’t helpful. But he couldn’t help and stop to smile when he found his own sweatshirt hidden amongst the meticulously folded undershirts.

Not enough time for sentimentality, he thought and moved to the knapsack.

Items in the knapsack shifted as he dug around the bottom. His fingers brushed against a worn spine and he pulled the book out carefully. The pages felt brittle beneath his fingertips and the corners dog-eared at the briefest of touches.

_French: Romance, Reprieves, and Revolutions._

He was pretty sure he remembered the library sending Mike a notice that the book was due back months ago but the plastic tag was mysteriously loosing it’s grip around the book like it had given up it’s fight against the stubborn blond.

Frowning, his finger caught on something sticking out from the pages like a bookmark and he pulled the folded paper out from the middle of whatever chapter Mike had been reading.

He sighed a deep low sigh as he flipped the paper open. He was in love with a sentimental asshole who kept giving Grantaire a heart attack every time he got himself into trouble.

His touch was feather light over their faces. To his knowledge it was the only one of them together. Pictures were a risk in both of their lines of work and a luxury neither could afford. The picture itself wasn’t even that great. Grantaire’s face was half hidden in Mike’s neck and Mike’s eyes were squinted but both of their smiles were huge.

Putting the picture down was like ripping out teeth but he was two minutes out before he had to move again. Propping the picture up on Mike’s desk he checked that his bag was hidden under Mike’s bed, his extra weapons stashed properly, and his sniper rifle effectively hidden. The last thing he needed was someone snooping and finding his personal arsenal. The others knew that he wasn’t really FBI, except for the new guy, but they’d still demand answers that he couldn’t and wouldn’t give.

Scanning Mike’s desk for anything, Grantaire checked his watch, and flipped his hood over his inky curls.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Grantaire came through the shadows, the sun had started to make the sky a southern belle pink and the nightlife was dwindling with the coming of morning. Donnie sipped his beer, cocking a brow at the very distinct way Grantaire was walking. It screamed ‘man on a mission’ and ‘fuck off’ while accompanying the ‘I belong here and invented the walk of shame.’ He slinked in and around the very existence of everyone around him and his hood was perked over his inky curls enough to be noticeable but forgettable.

“You know, you’re the second one of my friends who pointed a gun at me when we met,” Donnie said with a twisted grin on his face. The left side of Grantaire’s lips twitched up in response. “Enjolras was the first.”

“He always is.” Grantaire quipped and accepted the beer that Donnie held out to him. “Follow me.”

They blended into the growing crowd of drunks that were heading home or at least to someone’s bed. Walking side by side, they bumped shoulders as they weaved in and around the sidewalk. Part of it was an act, something to blend them in because strictly speaking Donnie wasn’t suppose to be in California and he had a feeling Grantaire wasn’t either. But part of it was also the reassuring press that the other was actually there. Grantaire wasn’t another figment of Donnie’s imagination or some trick of his eyes. He was real and whole and standing beside him.

“So, I take it Mike remembered?” He asked sipping his beer and swirling the liquid in his mouth before he swallowed.

“Yeah, for a while now.” Grantaire unscrewed his beer and tossed the cap into the alleyway between bars that leaked out girls in short skirts and runny mascara. “We worked a case together and it sort of happened.”

“I was a rookie in tactical. Ran into Bossuet. Poor bastard was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Donnie’s expression turned dark and he fiddled with his beer bottle. “He didn’t seem to know or anything… it didn’t effect him like it did me and he didn’t recognize me so…”

Donnie took a long thoughtful sip of his beer, fingers loosely curled around the neck, before he broke the silence.

“I thought I was crazy for a long time. I was remembering all of these faces and all of these people but,” he took another sip almost bitterly. “They weren’t remembering me.”

Another sip and the bottle was empty but he held onto it, his hands needing something to keep busy. “So, I forgot about it. I mean I was a young kid on like my second raid in my life. I thought I was trying to cope. But then I saw Enjolras… He didn’t recognize me either but I knew. I just knew.”

“How?” Grantaire asked. “I remember some but for the most part… it’s like a blur and I don’t know until… We found Combeferre.”

“No kidding?” The smile on Donnie’s face was enough to make the conversation seem almost casual, two friends catching up instead of two agents ducking into dark alleyways and constantly checking over their shoulders.

Grantaire nodded. “He seems to think it has something to do with a touch. A significant touch. Mike and I were holding hands and it clicked with us. But it doesn’t seem to be the same for everyone. He remembers everyone vividly, I can see blurs, and Mike doesn’t remember anyone.”

“No one?” Donnie frowned. Grantaire only shrugged. He knew how it ate Mike up inside, knowing that all these people were practically family to Enjolras and not being able to remember a single face. It was torture. Donnie whistled low and chucked his beer bottle into a dumpster.

“He goes by Mike, by the way,” Grantaire said off handedly. Donnie nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Donnie’s fine,” he said. “What about you?”

“Grantaire and I share enough demons that a name is just like buying the beer with the burger. This way.” Grantaire shrugged down a back street and directed them towards another series of alleys before they reached a rusted fire escape that had seen better days. Together, they climbed up to the rooftop and Donnie barely caught a glimpse of the sunrise before they ducked inside. Grantaire pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door, a hand around the gun hidden at the waist of his pants as he followed.

Tempted as he was to whistle the tune to Mission: Impossible, Donnie followed silently and let his friend sweep the area before deciding that it was safe to take his finger off the trigger.

“So I take it you’re either a ninja with paranoia issues or you’re currently in a debrief period.” Donnie said it as a statement but it was a question as well. Cloak and dagger was fine and dandy when someone knew how to do it properly but Donnie would prefer not to get shot by someone who Grantaire had burned along the way. With a quick glance around the sparse room, he could recognize a safe house easily. A table with two mismatched chairs sat in the middle and a stained mattress was pushed into a corner. The thin layer of dust and paint stained hardwood made the place feel like the inside of a beer bottle in the sand.

Donnie let his head fall back as he sighed, running his hands over his face. Grantaire studied Donnie silently. Deep circles made his hazel eyes seem dark and his beard was ragged around his mouth hiding the deep worry lines from frowning.

“When’s the last time you slept?”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” Donnie’s accent was thick when he was exhausted. Without looking up at Grantaire, he pulled the thick file he had tucked in his jacket and threw it onto the little rickety table before plopping himself into the fold out chair. It squeaked in protest under his weight but it felt amazing to sit down that he didn’t even care. But before Grantaire could reach to open the file, Donnie placed his hand over it, curling his fingers around the worn edges.  

“You don’t have to tell me anything about what you do and who you work for. I trust you enough to know you aren’t going to shoot me in the back. But I need you at least to tell me that you have enough clearance to see this.”

“I do.” Grantaire pulled his gun from his waistband and set it on the table before he sat down as well. 

Nodding, Donnie flipped the file open and spun it for Grantaire to see. “That’s good enough for me.”

Grantaire’s brow furrowed as he spread out the photos and sheets along the table.

“Madden Edwards,” Donnie said tapping a photo he had taken of Edwards a few weeks before he had traveled to California. “That’s the guy I’ve been following for the past six months.”

“What’s DEA want with him?”

“He’s tied to several transitions of heroin being smuggled in and out of the US as well as English ports, along with several other terrible awful things,” Donnie said with a drawl folding his hands over one another. “He _was_ an associate of Bello’s before Mike took him out of commission and he’s been considered having orchestrated over a hundred cross country smuggling operations.”

“He’s a fence.” Grantaire flipped a page in the file.

“He’s _the_ fence.” Donnie’s eyes darkened. “Working with Edwards is like signing a deal with the devil. He doesn’t discriminate, he doesn’t favor. It’s cold business and Lord help you if you cross him.”

“Who does he usually work for?”

“Recently? He’s been dealing with the Westies, a couple of Russians.” He scratched a this beard absently. “Anyone else over on the other side of the pond has only been hearsay. They haven’t exactly been cooperative with sharing information over there. Least not with my clearance.”

Grantaire peered up at him through thick eyelashes, an arched brow speaking more than anything he could ever say.

“So why haven’t you pulled him in yet?” He asked instead, glancing back down at the form.

“Edwards is damn good at what he does. When I found out that he was coming to the West Coast I knew it had to be something or he would have just sent one of his meat heads to do it.” Sighing, Donnie pulled out two photos and laid them in front of Grantaire. “Fredric and Jon here are his number twos. Fredric’s former military intelligence and Jon's a former marine who was dishonorably discharged for bashing in the head of a civilian who had snuck into the food tent.”

“Charming,” Grantaire said dryly reading over the rap sheet attached to Fredric’s photo. “None of this answers why they want Mike though.”

“I only found out earlier today that Edwards is looking at the open real-estate the FBI cleared away for a couple of his clients who are looking to take over the heroin business now that Bello is out of the picture. Given the rifts that are happening in New York with a couple prompt Irish gang families, I’d bet my left nut on the fact that one side has paid Edwards to give them a leverage.”

“The Westies are sending heroin that Bello was importing to the Irish mob?”

Donnie nodded. “Who then resell a small portion of that to various big time dealers. Highway robbery at it’s finest.”

Grantaire frowned and flipped through the pages. “I don’t understand. How does Mike fall in this?”

“Edwards is trying to find Bello’s supplier. Odin Rossi,” Donnie said as Grantaire swore. “Word got out somehow that the kid fought Odin and lived to tell the tale. Which means, Mike’s the only one who has seen Odin’s face besides Bello. And with Bello locked away with the key to his cell in the garbage---“

“Edwards thinks that Mike knows where to find Odin.” Grantaire finished grimly.

“Or at least knows what the bastard looks like.” Donnie snagged a sheet of paper of what little he had been able to scrounge up about Odin Rossi without raising too many flags. Technically speaking it had been an FBI case and someone with Donnie’s priorities shouldn't have been looking into a cold case. Not if he didn’t want to have a swarm of investigators wanting in on the case.  “No one, and I mean no one, has seen this guy’s face.”

“And neither has Mike.”

Donnie’s hands stilled.

“Excuse me?” He asked with an arched brow.

“He came up behind him. Mike broke a couple of his ribs but Odin knocked him out before he could see his face,” Grantaire said.

“Shit.” Donnie dropped his head into his hands, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes.

“How long is it going to take before Edwards figures out that Mike doesn’t know anything?” Grantaire asked, wrapping his arms around himself.

“He won’t.” Donnie sighed, thinking for a moment before he rubbed his hand over his face. “I can get my CI to give Mike an address.”

“Make a sting?” Grantaire asked, skeptical.

“This changes everything. My CI is too close for me not to pull both of them out.”

“How far in is your CI?” Grantaire flipped back to Jon’s profile and scanned the information absently before flipping to Fredric.

“He’s his grandson.”

Grantaire stilled.

“That would mean… wait a minute.” Grantaire looked murderous and Donnie contemplated on whether or not he would be able to grab his gun before Grantaire shot him. “So, you have known where Mike’s been this whole time. And you didn’t pull him out?”

“Grantaire, just wait. I---“ Donnie tried again but Grantaire’s incredulously stare was turning into a harsh glare that made Donnie think that he may actually shoot him.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I---“

“Pull him out. “ Grantaire demanded. “Pull him out now.”

“I can’t.” Donnie tried but it only hardened Grantaire’s glare.

“Can’t or won’t.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“No what’s bullshit is that he’s still in there.” Grantaire argued. “This isn’t some undercover assignment that he agreed too! This is someone selling Mike out and once Edwards figures out that Mike doesn’t know anything he’s going to put _a bullet in his brain_!”

“I can’t pull Mike out and not pull my CI out too! My investigation---“

“I don’t give a _shit_ about your investigation, Bahorel.” Grantaire snarled. “Mike’s life is in danger.”

“Yeah? Well, so is his.” Donnie slapped the photo on the small table with a snap. Grantaire stared down at the photo and the vile words died in his throat as he gaped at the image. Edwards was talking on his phone with a New York street setting that dated the picture but the focus wasn’t on Edwards. A young man with striking freckles and a matching business suit stared up at Grantaire.

“Is that…” Grantaire pointed at the man and quickly looked to Donnie. He was serious and with his mouth pressed in a grim line, he nodded.

“Marius.” He was silent for a moment to allow the name to a face to sink in for Grantaire. He leaned onto the table and slid the picture closer to him. “His name is Marcus Edwards, Madden’s grandson, and my CI. Do you see why I haven’t gone in guns blazin’ yet? Look, R, I’m not pissing on your leg and telling you it’s raining! I’m trying to protect Mike. But I’m running on limited information here. Despite what you may think I’m not too keen on the idea of taking a bayonet to the chest only for my friends to die anyway. _Again._ But I will if I have to.”

Grantaire searched the picture before glancing up at Donnie. Donnie had the same expression Grantaire remembered, the one willing to die for his friends, willing to do whatever it took to make sure his friends had a chance. One that didn't judge whether they fought or ran or hid so long as they did _something._  Flashes of waking up smelling of wine and the same tang of blood, Bahorel’s body was draped over the destroyed barricade. It made his chest constrict, pulled at what would have been a sob if he hadn’t heard the shouting upstairs and raced to find them in time.

“If I don’t nail Edwards and lock him up for good then he’ll come after everyone involved. If he walks then he will not stop.” The same desperate edge was in his eyes, the same glint that spoke of the extent he was willing to go. “He will hunt Mike and Marcus until they are _dead._ Marius, Enjolras, they will never be safe and once Edwards has taken care of them he’ll go back and do the same shit that he’s built his entire career on.”

Bahorel, the protector, his friend. The one that had thrown himself in the way in hopes that he’d given his friends enough of a chance to run. To live. Donnie must have seen something in Grantaire’s expression as well because he shifted so that his knees bumped against Grantaire’s, seeking out the one thing Grantaire could give him. Proof that he was still there.

“I need a little more time. You have my word,” Donnie said. “I can’t take Enjolras out and leave Marius. Edwards will kill him.”

“What if Mike doesn’t have more time?” Grantaire asked weakly. “He could be dead now.”

“He’s not.”

“How do you know?” Grantaire hated the way his voice cracked. It was pathetic. This is what he does for a living! This is the stress he lives for in a job. But it didn’t change the fact that the utter agony in his chest was threatening to tear him apart because this was Mike. He was way too close to the case and yet there was no one else he trusted to find him. Not even Donnie.

Donnie pulled away, shifting in his seat as he searched his pockets before he pulled out a phone. Tapping the screen with a concentrated efficiency, he turned the phone around for Grantaire to see. A view of Edward’s face took up the screen as Marcus talked to his grandfather. Holy shit, it was Marius. He could recognize the soft muttering low timbre voice anywhere. The thought felt like a kick in the chest and Grantaire couldn’t help but curl his hands around the phone.

“It’s live.” Donnie explained. “I’ve been monitoring him the whole time. He’s roughed up but he’s breathing.”

That didn’t comfort Grantaire in the slightest.

“I’ve got a shit plan but it’s a plan,” Donnie said looking a little nervous that Grantaire may still shoot him.

“What do you have in mind?”

“What I do best,” Donnie said with a small grin. “Distraction. If we get Edwards on something small enough to detain him, I can get Marcus and Mike out. But that's going to be a small window. We have to make sure that we can find something so that Edwards won't ever leave and I'm talking big. But I don't have anything yet that can do that. He's smart. His name is never on the material he fences for and every time I've come close to something his employers are the ones that end up in cuffs. I've been trying to be in about six places at once and all I've got for it is a connection to a couple of the Westies family. And now this."

“They got Al Capone on tax evasion,” Grantaire said off handedly.

“And we can get him on attempts to purchase and sell illegal substances with a known drug dealer. That should get me enough time to pull Mike and Marcus out without drawing suspicion.”

Grantaire lifted a brow. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose. Won’t Edwards know something’s up if Marcus decides to leave.”

“We won’t give him a choice. The bastard is a control freak and he’s got a tight reign on the kid. Financials, housing, everything. Marcus’s parents died in a car crash when he was eight and Edwards has been his guardian ever since. I’ll make it seem like the police took him into custody.” Grantaire frowned dubiously and Donnie sighed. “There’s no question that we have to pull Mike and we will. But I can’t leave Marius in there. It protects them long enough for me to pull out the big guns.”

"Which you don't have." Grantaire ran a rough hand through his curls. “I don’t like this…"

Donnie cringed and dropped his head into his hands.

Grantaire sighed and set the file back down onto the table, glancing down at the picture of Marius. "Tell me more."   


	5. Chapter 5

“Stop,” a muttered squeak said. Fredric turned sharply, a sneer pulling the corners of his lips into an odd twist. Marcus stood by the door, clutching his supplies with trembling hands.

“Excuse me?” He asked, his voice making the hair on the back of Marcus’s neck stand tall and a nervous clench form in his abdomen.

Marcus swallowed and forced his face to remain blank--- void of any and all of his nervous habits--- but he could feel the heat creeping up his neck. Soon his face was going to be as red as a tomato and he hardly appeared intimidate as a tomato.

“I said to stop.”

Jon dropped his raised fist, but his other hand remained tangled in the FBI agent’s blond hair. Fredric strode across the room in four impressive steps before he stood toe to toe with Marcus, and laughed in his face. A prickle of anger churned in Marcus’s stomach and he refused to step back. He squared his jaw tight and matched Fredric’s glare with one of his own. One, that he hated to say, was strikingly similar to the ones his grandfather used before men started to beg for their lives.

“We don’t take order from you.” Fredric hissed and Marcus tried very hard not to flinch. He wasn’t entirely sure he succeeded.

“No, but you do from my grandfather,” he said with a wavering bravado. “And my grandfather would like for him to not be beaten into a coma before he finds out what he wants.”

Fredric sized Marcus up and down, the vein on his forehead pulsating before he stepped back. Working his jaw, he sent a glance to Jon and then stormed past him, Jon following Fredric with an equally disturbing amount of silence. It wasn't much but at least he could trust that neither of them men would shoot him in the back. His grandfather would never allow the family name to be tarnished in such disgracefully back alley death.  

He jumped as the door slammed behind them and his hands quivered with adrenaline. Letting out a shaky breath, he made his way to the FBI agent.

“Agent Warren?” Nothing. With his head slumped to his chest, Marcus couldn’t see anything, and when he prodded him gently he remained unresponsive. Swallowing, he reached forward and with a tentative hand grasped his chin. He wasn’t expecting to see tired blue eyes opened as he guided his head up. They narrowed before Mike jerked his head away, glaring at him and throwing a strong shield over his face.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Marcus said. Mike snorted incredulously and Marcus reached out to him again. Mike winced away from him as though he expected another hit before he could stop himself. Marcus recognized the self loathing reproach as Mike pointed looked away for reacting too quickly. The disgust within himself made Marcus's pale face flush and he swallowed the crippling nausea that was sending his stomach into a riot. 

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low deep tone that his grandfather would have called a mutter. “I…”

He cut himself off with a sigh, digging his teeth into his lip. Mike was leery of him for good reason. Marcus hadn’t hidden that he was uncomfortable with the underworld dealings his grandfather ruled like a second skin. The blood and grime, however, didn’t as easily sit on Marcus’s shoulders like his suit jacket. But it was there like a growing stain he was never going to get rid of, despite all of the encouragement from Agent Banks. Yet, he wanted Mike to believe him so terribly. Maybe it was for his own selfish reasons because he couldn’t stop them from beating him, but there was something about Mike. Something in the way that he held his defiant silence in the face of his grandfather that had Marcus's admiration. It was in such a proud way that Marcus could never hope to accomplish. Most men at this point were willing to turn in their own mothers to get the pain to stop. 

And the best part, again for his own selfish enjoyment, was that it made his grandfather absolutely infuriated. 

Mike gave him a thoughtful stare, his jaw still clenched in silence, but a hunger lingered in his eyes as he gazed at him. Marcus followed his line of sight, at the water bottle he had placed on the ground, and then back at Mike. Mike swallowed and turned his head sharply to glare at Marcus again, like a teenager caught defying an authority figure they had deemed unworthy. Marcus, unfortunately, understood the sentiment all too well.

“Here,” he said, grabbing the water bottle and taking a sip. Mike’s eyes narrowed on him but he watched as Marcus drank the water with a careful thoroughness. Holding the bottle up to Mike’s lips, Marcus tilted slightly and water dripped down the side of Mike’s mouth and chin. But it was enough to open the flood gates and Mike opened his mouth, taking in as much water as he could.

“Careful,” Marcus said eventually taking the water bottle away only to receive an even more heated glare from Mike. “If you drink too much you’ll make yourself sick.”

Mike again said nothing but his nostrils flared as if he agreed but didn’t want to say it.

“Let me look at your wounds and then I’ll give you so more water.” Nothing, which Marcus took as a yes. Slowly and deliberately, Marcus held up his hands and then brought the damp rag to press against the cuts littering around Mike’s eye. Mike hissed at both the sting and the cold.

“Sorry,” Marcus said, dragging the cloth to catch some of the water that ran down his jaw. His voice was soft, a mutter really but sincere.

Marcus dipped the cloth in the bowl, changing the clear water into a muddled yellowish brown.

“You know,” Marcus said over the slow trickle of the water as he squeezed out some of the excess liquid. He was mumbling again but there as hint of off handedness in his tone. Marcus caught the flicker of interest in Mike's eye before he hid it away behind his challenging gaze. But the flicker meant that he was listening and Marcus pressed the cold cloth to a bruise forming around the base of Mike’s jaw, tenderly feeling the bone to make sure it hadn’t been broken.

“They just want to know where to find Odin.” His brow twitched. 

“I’ve already told you.” Mike snapped, irritation flashing over his blue eyes.

“Hold still.” Marcus tutted and went back to cleaning off the drying blood.

“Odin’s gone and I’m not going to help you find him just for you to kill him.”

It was the the first time he had actually heard Mike speak and the same defiant bite was sharp in his tone. 

“Gone but not far,” Marcus corrected. Mike scoffed and pulled back out of Marcus’s reach. Marcus followed him anyway and cupped his chin in his hand, smoothing over the clean cuts and moving to the next. “You don’t trust me, I understand. I am, after all, the grandson of the man who is doing this to you but you need to listen to me very carefully.”

Blue eyes peered up at him suspiciously but Marcus forced himself to take a calm and steady breath, anything to get his heart to stop hammering in his chest.

“You do know where Odin is and when they ask you again you have to tell them he is living in his condo on South Main street. That’s exactly twenty minutes from here.” Marcus’s muttering was a nervous habit but it made it easier for him to speak in the same nonchalant tone in case Fredric or Jon had been trying to listen from the door. Only Mike would be able to hear what he was actually saying. He held Mike’s stare, watching as the gears shifted and turned as Mike processed what Marcus was implying. “Do you understand?”

Marcus searched Mike’s face. A conflicted swarm of emotions passed over Mike. He must have been getting tired. He had been much harder to read before Jon had gotten rougher with him.

There was something. Something that mingled within Marcus, twisting around that need to have Mike believe him from before, as if he wanted to prove to Mike that he was serious. Serious about what he was committing to, serious about what he was saying. It was a familiar pull yet unrecognizable and it made his shoulders feel straighter, his head a little higher, like he had a purpose. Like he had hope that for the first time in his life he could do something that was good instead of sitting in something toxic.

“I’m just as much of a prisoner as you, believe me.” He blushed furiously. Whatever he had planned on saying it hadn’t been that. He hadn’t meant to say that. Ever. He flustered his tongue to come up with words and forced himself to stop. Taking a deep breath and licking his lips, he stared at a small bruise along Mike's cheekbone. Anything to avoid having to look at him again. Dragging the rag down to scrub at some dried blood, he folded it and started cleaning again. 

“Odin Rossi is in his home on South Main street. By the greenery and there wooden steps that lead to a private beach.” He repeated slowly. Mike’s mouth twisted into a frown but he said nothing as Marcus continued to try and patch his wounds as best he could.

* * *

Grantaire listened carefully to Donnie, ignoring the pointed stares Charlie was sending his way. He was tense, antsy, fidgeting with his hands that craved to have the familiar weight of his rifle back in them or at least the comforting coolness of alcohol. But his gun was hidden, safely tucked away from everyone else, and he needed to stay focused. He drank to numb himself and he needed to be at his sharpest. 

He was putting all of these people in danger, his handler had told him as much when he had called and forced him too move his debrief up. The news story had been out the next morning and the cover was rushed but at least he could stay in one place for longer than twenty minutes. The guilt still ate him up inside, especially with the way everyone was lounging in the living room completely unaware. But Donnie had understood.

“Enjolras may call you a right bastard if he finds out,” Donnie had said when they had walked back to Graceland.

“At least he’ll be alive to call me one,” Grantaire said in a short clipped tone. Donnie had nodded and said nothing else.

He was going to do his best to protect his friends, but Mike came first. He would always come first. Sometimes, there were just parts of the old Grantaire that he couldn’t fight.

“I thought you were in Miami,” Paige said with a skeptical cursory glance over Donnie. They had been close back when he had lived in the house. The three musketeers, Paige, Lauren, and himself. Donnie cocked a familiar brow, curling his lips into a smirk.

“Yeah funny thing about that.” And then he turned away without another word. Paige threw a pillow at his head and he ducked with a chuckle.

“Stop throwing furniture, Paige.” Charlie scolded, her piercing brown eyes swiveling back to Donnie. “So, I still don’t understand why this Edwards guy is going to help us find Mike.”

There was a nervous tension that buzzed throughout the room like a mosquito on a hot summer’s day. Briggs was pacing, only stopping long enough for Charlie to press a soothing touch to his thigh. Paige was tapping her feet, her arms crossed over her chest as she continued to eye Donnie suspiciously. Johnny and Bates were both seated at the table beside Charlie reading over the file he had pulled together. A few details had been held close and not included for his former housemates to see but Charlie was still staring at him, demanding answers.

“I think that Edwards can lead us to where the new room mate might be.” Donnie inwardly winced at the casual toss of reference to Mike. He was so much more and yet no on in the room knew other than Grantaire hidden in the shadows. To everyone else, Mike was just another house mate that had been lost into the system of D.C. bullshit. 

“How?” Paige asked, glancing up from her file in her lap.

“A while back my CI recorded a conversation between Edwards and one of his clients, an up and coming figure in one of the Westies families talking about moving out west,” Donnie said. “And seeing as how the FBI conveniently put some real-estate up on the market…”

“Yeah, whatever.” Johnny groaned at the dig and skimmed through the files talking about Jon and Fredric.

“Why’s he here?” Bates asked. “East coast is the perfect transatlantic smuggling. Why would any of the families think that moving out here would be a good idea?”

Donnie turned on his heel, catching Charlie’s attention and staring her in the eye. Last he had heard, she had gone crazy with trying to put a freaking face to this guy. He couldn’t afford to have his attention divided between Marcus and Mike _and_ Charlie falling back into a dirty habit of pushing too hard. Her obsession could get someone killed. 

“Odin Rossi.” A chill that could have frosted a beer that had been sitting out in the hot sun fell in the room and for a moment no one said anything. Charlie didn’t flinch. She didn’t react other than purse her lips to the side like she had tasted something sour.

“He’s trying to find Odin Rossi,” Donnie said again.

“What does that have to do with Mike?” Briggs had stopped his pacing, his body rigid and taunt. He cast a worried glance down at Charlie, a flicker of concern that she didn’t see, but Briggs forced himself to relax a little with a heavy sigh.

“You think Edwards thinks Mike knows something.” Charlie answered for him.

“Word got to Edwards that there was someone who wasn’t dead or in a dark cell somewhere that had gone up against Odin and lived.” Donnie wrapped his arms around himself and leaned against the brick pillar. The rough texture pressed into his back and grounded him into his easy cover. He and Grantaire had spent over two hours perfecting the simplest slip to wear that none of the others would notice. It had been a while since they all saw each other last and if someone really wanted to point of a finger they had enough to go on to point on right back, distracting whoever decided to stick their nose into places Donnie kept close to his person. He may be busy but he had eyes. He could see the changes in the house, clear as day. 

“Yeah, and did your CI happen to tell Edwards that Odin is dancing around somewhere in South America?” Briggs asked, his tone edging into a tight sound from the back of his throat.

“FBI ruled that Quinn wasn't Odin. They found his body three months ago off the coast of Florida.” Johnny piped in, his sentence dying off when Briggs shot him a glare.

“That doesn’t mean---“

“I’m sorry, but am I the only one wondering the credibility of this CI?” Paige asked, running her fingers through her hair. Her blue eyes were piercing. “Donnie you haven’t spoken to him face to face in over a month.” 

Not entirely true but none of them needed to know that.

“According to this, Edwards takes care of his finances, his food, his housing, his education. He’s gone to every pretentious boarding school in Europe. Sounds like a sweet deal if you ask me.” Bates added.

Paige hummed her agreement. "And he's family. What's to say he's not using you to get Edwards out of the way and take over the business."

“It’s not like that," he said, grounding his teeth together. From the looks on their faces Donnie knew they didn’t believe him. Sagging his shoulders, he bit his lip. “The kid’s parents died in a car crash when he was eight. Madden, being his only living relative, was named guardian. The moment he got control of the reins on this kid, he hasn’t let go. He won’t even let the kid have his parents’ wedding rings. Marcus wants out and he’s willing to help me to do that.”

"And you believe him?" Grantaire asked, giving Donnie something to feed on. 

"I do." Donnie nodded. He tapped Edwards's picture on the bulletin board they had pulled into the living room. It looked rude and intrusive shoved between the couch and the fireplace, blocking the light.

“I need your help on this one, guys,” Donnie said, turning pleading eyes to his crowd. It took everything he had to keep from glancing over at Grantaire. That’s what they had agreed upon when they had planned earlier that morning. They didn’t know each other. They were simply two agents with the circumstances of knowing the same people. It was a lot easier said than done. He had gone through a long time of not knowing if there was ever going to be a single person he could trust fully in this house. Slipping in and playing frat friend was easy but that never changed the fact that there was a nagging reminder that he was alone, his friends lost somewhere in a crowd of people. They wouldn't even recognize his face if he walked up to them and jabbed them in the eye. 

But now he had someone in his corner. Someone in a dark, brooding corner but a corner all the same. 

“If we can pull him in,” Charlie said, her brow arching high onto her forehead. “We can at least question him. How are we going to do this?”

“Edwards wants Odin? I’ll give him Odin.” Donnie pulled his smirk on like a coat and tossed it over to Paige who winked at him.

“You want to set up a buy? Isn’t Edwards a little smart for that? He’s been doing this for years,” Briggs argued. Grantaire had said the same thing but Donnie shook his head.

“Edwards won’t pass up an opportunity.” Edwards was smart and calculating but part of his reputation was exploring every possibility. He didn’t stop until he got results. His temper was his downfall and Edwards had quite the temper. He wouldn't stop until every avenue had been invested in and even then he didn't quit. "We get Edwards and we question and search until we find something on Mike."

No one said anything for a moment, torn between searching the files and casting silent glances to one another. Donnie peered over at Grantaire and then back at Johnny before catching Charlie's gaze. 

“We’re in.” Charlie decided for the house. Paige and Johnny nodded as well and before anyone could say anything else, she stood.

“I want to talk to you,” she said in a whisper to Grantaire, turning on her heel before he could argue. He stood from his spot, following her out, glad to at least be able to move.

She walked up the stairs and Grantaire took two at a time to keep up with her. He trailed a step behind her until she reached the bathroom.

“What’s going on?” She demanded the moment the door closed. Grantaire opened his mouth but she lifted a finger and cut him off before he could begin to spin a lie.

“No,” she said. “Don’t you start. Something’s going on and you aren’t telling us. I can’t say for sure but somehow you and Donnie are in on it together. You aren’t telling us everything and I want to know why.”

Grantaire tilted his head, feigning innocence. He had taken on tons of guys half her size and she was still more terrifying than any of them. He’d weighed his options a long time ago and he was better off staying silent. When she realized he wasn’t going to say anything she crossed her arms and cocked her hip.

“Alright,” she said. “Don’t say anything _Agent Gregoire_ but just know that those people’s lives are on you. And if anything happens to them or if something happens to Mike because you’re not ballsy enough to cut through your bureaucratic bullshit, it’s on you.”

"So now you guys actually care about what happens to Mike? Where was that when you thought it was a good idea to dangle him in front of a couple of assassins?" Grantaire snapped, a coil of anger breaking inside of him and making his face flush.

"Cut the crap." Charlie scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "You know as well as I do that when Mike wants to do something he's going to do it no matter what anyone says."

"And who put that idea in his head, Charlie?" Grantaire asked brusquely. 

Charlie's mouth quirked to the side and the barest hint of concern was wrapped a bristling irritation. "What's this about?" 

"I want to know what happened to you guys!" Grantaire waved his hand out, pointing to the living room and forcing himself to keep from shouting. 

"What the hell is that suppose to mean?" The concern was gone but the indignation was there. He had insulted her and he liked that. Good, he thought. Because he was tired of dancing around on egg shells with these people. 

"I think you know, Charlie."

"Do I?"

"You do. Because just like last time, you guys have had your heads too far up your asses to even think that maybe the reasons you're mad at Mike isn't that he left but because he's never had a problem with calling you out on your crap and expecting better from you." Grantaire grounded out from between his teeth. "He was alone because you guys sure didn't bother to hide the fact that he wasn't wanted anymore."

"He was alone?" Charlie asked cocking a cruel brow. "If he was alone, then where were you?"

She leveled a glare at him that could whither anyone and brushed past Grantaire, slamming the door as she left.


	6. Chapter 6

Grantaire traced a dizzy line up the curve of Mike’s side, jutting over the ridges of his ribs, and fanning his hand over the flare of his shoulder blades. Mike sighed into the touch, leaning into his hand as he draped his arm over Grantaire's waist and tangled cold toes between Grantaire's warm calves. Goose bumps littered the tan skin of his arm and he smiled into a kiss on one of Mike’s many freckles, usually hidden by his shirt.

“You’re hair is starting to curl again.” Grantaire hummed as he twirled his finger into the one rare looping curl peeking through very serious kept blond hair. Mike grimaced and shifted beside Grantaire, burrowing half of himself under Grantaire's body. Grantaire frowned, leaning over to kiss the strand of hair. His lips traveled to Mike’s temple and pressed against the soft skin before tracing down to the underside of his jaw and then his lips. The soft tender press of his lips deepened and Mike sighed against him, his muscles uncoiling slightly into a messed up form of relaxing.

“What’s got you all worked up?” Grantaire asked, staring into Mike’s eyes as he finally released the cowlick and ran his knuckles along Mike's jaw.

A sharp honk outside of the hotel room window made them twitch. Grantaire huffed, dropping his head and pressing it into the crook of Mike’s neck. They stayed that way, their hearts beating in tandem, until their shared body heat made their skin clammy and stick together.

“I don’t remember him.” Mike said after what felt like hours of lying there, barely mouthing the words into the skin of Grantaire's shoulder. Grantaire could hear the frown in his voice.

“I don’t remember any of them.” Lifting up onto his elbows, Grantaire’s inky curls hung over his face as he gazed down at Mike. Biting his lip and looking absolutely disappointed in himself, Mike refused to meet Grantaire’s eyes.

“I remember you,” he said. “So clearly and I remember… _remembering_ but I can’t remember their faces or their voices or…”

He broke off and fixed his stare down on the bed spread beneath them.

“It’s blurry for me. Like,” Grantaire said, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he searched for the right word. “Like those drunk goggles. It’s shapes and colors and stupid things.”

The corner of Mike’s lips twitched bitterly and he flexed his fist on the strong support of Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” He tapped Mike’s chin, making Mike look at him, and kissing the tip of his nose. “Not remembering George?”

“I just don’t know why I don’t remember.”

“Well, it’s not an exact science here.” Grantaire laughed softly. “We’re two people with past lives of French revolutionists that died together after trying to overthrow the crown, living in a profession where we can’t even visit each other at our respective office for a surprise lunch. It may not be the same for the other.”

“I just want to remember,” Mike said and the near whispered way he spoke made Grantaire’s chest rip in half. The anguish and self-doubt that lingered in his striking blue eyes wasn’t right on him. He tried to kiss away the pain, curling around Mike and holding him close to ease some of the nerves. Mike’s skin demanded to be touched and Grantaire’s hand demanded to do the touching. They found each other after years of being apart, ripped away from one another right after they shared a shimmer of a moment when they had finally been united on something, and he didn’t want to let go. Tomorrow he was meeting George, possibly Enjolras’s best friend Combeferre, and the reunion shouldn’t be clouded by lingering self-deprecating thoughts that had settled on Mike’s shoulders the moment they had stepped on the plane to New York.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Donnie’s voice pulled Grantaire from his memory. The New York city life was replaced by the lulling waves outside and the stifling hush of sleep that rested stiffly on Graceland was like a rough blanket. 

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.” Grantaire quipped with a twist of his lips. He field stripped his gun again, needing something to do with his hands. The couch dipped as Donnie sat beside Grantaire, unloading his own gun and sliding the chamber back. The slide pulled back at the effortless command of his fingers and Grantaire pretended not notice the way that Donnie kept checking his hands. The Grantaire he remembered couldn’t go a day without a drink and he knew he had been checking periodically throughout the day, looking for the signs. The shaking hands, the sweating, the irritability. Grantaire knew the symptoms, hell he’d lived through them more times than he could count. The itch for a drink was something he had squandered deep down a long time ago. He could handle himself. The itch to touch Mike again was stronger.

Grantaire didn’t realize he had pressed his thigh against Donnie’s until Donnie nudged him in return. Grantaire huffed out a laugh before he could stifle it. The sound felt weird in his throat and he resisted the urge to lean into Bahorel’s side.

“Touch,” George had said, “Is like a language that we as humans are fluent in without even trying. The trying comes into pretending that we don’t understand what that touch means.”

Until Mike, until the day that he remembered and that night in the lifeguard hut, Grantaire had taken touch for granted. It’s the way they remembered. Somehow, a touch brought back memories of barricades and French streets in the morning and blood. Once he had it--- and he would feel safe in saying that Donnie thought the same--- it was a harder addiction to break than any kind of alcohol.

* * *

A strangled whimper escaped before he could stop it and Mike clamped his mouth shut. He would have cared if it didn’t burn so damn much but every time he moved it felt like he was on fire. He could still taste the salt water they had dumped on him and his chapped lips pulled tight around his mouth. Flexing was impossible and relaxing provided zero relief. The door opened but he didn’t bother to look up. He slid as much of his stoic mask that was left back onto his face but there was nothing he could do for the trembling.

“Oh my God!” The voice that was definitely not Jon or Fredric cried. Mike tried to lift his head, catching sight of a pale Marcus before the strength left his neck. Marcus was quick to move, dropping whatever he brought with him to the side and rushing behind Mike to the table where Fredric had kept his tools. Mike tensed on instinct and his feet seared with pain that made bile crawl up Mike’s throat. He swallowed, remaining stiff as Marcus hurried back to him. He glared at the knife in his hands but Marcus didn’t even seem to notice, instead focusing on the buckets of salt water Mike’s feet were anchored into. His hand rested on Mike’s knee, his palm soft and manicured.

“Please,” Marcus said with his nervous mumbling. “Please do not kick me.”

Without waiting for a response, Marcus cut the ropes around Mike’s calves that tethered him to the chair legs.

“Easy,” he said, easing Mike’s feet out of the buckets of salt water. He wanted to rip his legs away, get away from the pain but the burn was worse the faster he moved. He hissed a breath that embarrassingly cracked as Marcus probed the soles of his feet.

“Sorry.” He looked stricken as he grabbed a water bottle, his pale face turning a shade of green. Mike didn’t need to see to know what had made him so disturbed. Fredric had made a great show of dragging out the cuts on his feet before he had forced Mike to step into the buckets, smirking as Mike screamed.

With great care, Marcus held Mike’s leg and poured clean water over the broken, swollen skin. He couldn’t help but sigh as the cool liquid extinguished some of the burn.

“Why haven’t you told them yet?” Marcus’s voice shook as he hissed under his breath.

Mike should tell him to go to hell, he couldn’t--- _shouldn’t_ \--- trust Marcus, but he didn’t care because the clean water felt amazing and his body shuddered as the pain ebbed away. Maybe it was the pain or because he was so tired, but he stared at the freckles that would darken when Marcus blushed and the green eyes that seemed so familiar but easily forgettable. It was like hearing a melody that had been used in a song and smothered into an entirely different song with verses and lyrics. The room spun when Mike stared at something too long though so his observations weren't exactly on point.

“Drink,” Marcus ordered, holding the water bottle to his lips. He swallowed hungrily when the cool liquid met his chapped lips and his focus cleared slightly.

“Why does he keep taking pictures?” He asked, leveling a pathetic attempt of a glare on Marcus. Marcus gaped at him, his mouth opening and closing, and Mike tried to take another sip of water in his distraction.

“I…” He tried and jumped to tilt the water bottle back some more for Mike to get a drink. “I don’t know.”

Mike studied him, narrowed his eyes as he inspected Marcus’s response. It was sincere, even if he was seeing things a little hazy.

“I can find out if you would like but I’m not sure I’ll be told anything helpful. My grandfather doesn’t exactly include me on his motives.” There it was again. The familiar melody, bitterness that Mike recognized but was too vague for him to place. Marcus must have mistaken his scrutiny as skepticism because he blushed again.

“I’ll try... just please,” he dropped his voice into a low whisper again that mumbled his words together. “You can’t take much more of this. You have to tell them what I told you yesterday.”

Mike scowled and shook his head.

“I’m serious, Agent Warren,” Marcus pressed.  “You have to trust me on this.”

“I don’t trust you,” Mike said, hissing out a breath as a particular cut on his foot throbbed. He wasn’t going to be able to walk properly on them for days, let alone run. And when he escaped he was going to need to be able to run. Or sleep. No! He shook his head and forced himself to focus.

Why should he trust Marcus? Ignoring the part of him that wanted to trust Marcus,--- because he wanted to trust him so badly that he seriously was reassessing his head injury--- Marcus hadn’t hidden his distain for his grandfather. And if he was simply going to use Mike to do his dirty work for him then why should Mike help him? Not only that, but what about whoever Marcus could have gotten to play Odin? Would they be cleaned away when everything was said and done? He wasn’t going to help them commit murder on either side. 

But the simple resignation on Marcus’s face pulled at something in Mike that he couldn't place a name on.

“If you think I want anything to do with the… the _filth_ that my grandfather has called a business then I’m sorry to disappoint you but that will never happen.” Marcus stuttered. And had Mike said that out loud? The room was beginning to spin again. But something was different this time. When Marcus stuttered it was often in a mixture of excitement or bouts of submissive insecurities. This stutter was laced with bitterness and something dark that made his cheeks flame with an old anger.

“My father hated what my grandfather did for a living. He used to talk about art and charity and… and the idea that helping someone didn’t require some type of… _blood money_ _…_ for payment,” he sputtered. “And it’s been my grandfather’s mission to drill every last memory I have of him out of me.”

He cleared his throat and tore his eyes away from Mike, fixing his gaze on the red skin around Mike’s ankles.

“I can remember,” he said. A smile broke out tentatively, like he wasn’t quite used to doing it. “Once, we went out and I thought it was a festival or something. But then he… he put me on his shoulders so I could see the protest going on in front of Parliament about equal housing. The crowd was huge and my father and I cheered so loudly my throat hurt for days after.”

The smile stayed for a moment as Marcus cast a sideways glance up at Mike.

“Grandfather was furious.” Lines around his eyes wrinkled, lost in the memory, before the smile dimmed. Licking his lips, he set the water down and stood.

“I want to help,” he said, meeting Mike’s gaze long. “My grandfather’s practices are deplorable and I don’t want any part of it. But I’m trying to help you. I can’t promise to know what my grandfather plans on doing with you but please trust me when I say that I am here to help.”

Marcus reached up and grasped Mike’s shoulder. Long cold fingers curled around his too hot skin and squeezed, a means to say something that Marcus couldn’t voice without stumbling over his own words.

It felt like a joint that finally cracked back into alignment.  

The shock made a trembling breath burst through Mike's chest. The friendship, the utter over powering sense of complete frustration mixed with fondness clogged in his throat. Rightness. The familiar click of yet another piece of the puzzle. Mike didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The freckles, the eyes, the ‘please focus Marius’ bubbled in his chest spiraling into a warm _exasperation_. He had been so wrong. So terribly wrong and he’d never felt more relieved about being wrong in his whole life because he remembered Marius. Marius who was right in front of him, touching his shoulder like Enjolras and Marius often did as a means to say what the other didn't need to say. _I'm here._

Marcus let go like he had been burned. A strangled choke tore from his lips and Mike felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach. That warm feeling turned into a deep cold that set in Mike's bones.

Marcus’s freckled face was ashen and troubled, green eyes searching fiercely for something in Mike. Mike felt the weight drop back into his stomach and press against his spine as he gapped up at Marcus.

“Marius,” he said but Marcus flinched violently.

He was shutting down, a strange emotion passing over his face. It was so plain on his face and no! No, this wasn’t how this was suppose to happen. The smile was gone and the laughter lines were extinguished completely.

“No… No, Marius please,” Mike said straining forward in his bonds. “Please, let me explain… I---“

“I have to go.” Marcus fled from the room, leaving Mike.

"No! Please wait---" But the door slammed shut and it stung worse than the salt water. The growing flood of reality crashed down on Mike and in a moment of despair he realized what he had seen on Marcus’s face. Absolute and utter disgust.


	7. Chapter 7

The ice water smothered him like a thick blanket. Mike gasped, a harsh guttural sound ripping from his throat as he thrashed awake. Water dripped down his skin and puddled around him. His body shook at the shock of the drastic change in temperature and for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was. He was drowning!

“You made quite the impression on my grandson.” Mike sputtered, blinking furiously to see past wet eyelashes. “I don’t know what you said to him but he’s been gloriously quiet since you’re last meeting so I suppose I owe you a thank you.”

His pristine suit was gone, leaving him in his dress slacks and a button down. Shirtsleeves rolled up and tie missing, he still appeared as immaculate as when Mike had first seen him. Except now he could see the things he should have remembered. He should have remembered all of them.

Madden Edwards shared more physical features with Marius and the irrational anger that simmered inside of Mike at the thought was enough to make his face twist in distaste before he could stop himself.

“I know what you see when you look at me, Agent Warren,” Edwards said managing to still appear elegant in his worn down mock attempts at casualness. “Another criminal in a nice suit with money and men to spare. An old man well past his prime.”

“I don’t judge on first appearances.” Mike quipped. “Especially with my elders.”

Edwards chuckled and the sound sent a chill down Mike’s spine that had nothing to do with the cold water and everything to do with the way that the older man’s eyes were a dead green imitation of Marius’s.

“That’s quite interesting because I was raised to act like royalty.” Edwards’s expression turned serious, the lines around his mouth pulling down into his chin, and his voice sharpening. “In reality, I was merely a prince eating from the plate of a pauper. I wasn't given this money, Michael, I earned it.”

Mike hated when people called him Michael. It set his teeth on edge and brought back too many memories filled with resentment and flinching. Edwards gave Mike a stern stare, like he was schooling him, the same one he’d seen him give to Marius. Like he was nothing but a worthless waste of time. Mike matched his intimidation with defiance and set his jaw.

“You don’t scare me,” Mike said, a thrill of confidence giving him enough strength to hold his head high. A small snap flashed across Edwards’s eyes and Mike pushed harder, refusing to cower back. He smirked up at Edwards and shook his head. "It's like you said, you're just another old guy in a suit."

“Do you want to know why my men took pictures of your stages throughout your stay here?” He asked quietly, stalking towards Mike like a lion, about to pull out it’s prey’s vocal chords with it’s teeth. Mike held his gaze. “It is because from the moment I bought you for your secrets, you became mine and mine alone to decide what to do with, however I see fit.”

Spit flew onto Mike’s face and he steadied himself as Edwards swept closer to him, still hauntingly graceful despite the fire of anger blazing on his face.

“While I was raised with the class, sophistication, knowledge, and grace of some pompous aristocrat, I was also raised not to leave anything on my plate and I’ve taken that to carry me throughout my entire career.” His voice rose into the rafters of the room, bouncing and echoing in ways that made Mike feel like an exposed nerve, waiting to be prodded.

“You have other assets, Agent Warren, that don’t solely rely on your knowledge, secrets, or cooperation. Other assets that many would pay a great deal of money for even after you’ve been beaten to a pulp." Mike's eyes widened a fraction and recoiled away from Edwards out of instinct. "So make no mistake. You are a convenience, not an advantage. I will find Odin Rossi, one way or another. And you, my dear boy, will be another useless trinket I resell and make millions off of no matter how insolent of a tantrum you throw. The only choice you have at this moment in time is whether or not this is as easy as possible for you.”

“What about Marcus?" Mike asked. Edwards bristled, his eyes narrowing. "Is he another commodity to you too? Some kind of take away prize.”

“I don’t know why the concept of becoming nothing more than another piece of property is a surprise to you, Agent Warren.” Edwards’s hand shot out faster than Mike expected and curled around his throat. The old fingers, soft with age but strong enough to make Mike shake beneath him, squeezed. But he shifted Mike’s head to the side and pressed onto the space in the hollow of his neck with his thumb.

“It would appear you already are.” His thumb caressed the hickey Grantaire had left that morning in the living room of his safe house. Mike felt his breath hitch at the tender hiss of his bruise. He'd forgotten all about that. Mike cringed away from the hot air that rank of coffee and expensive cigars as Edwards’s breath curled on his skin. Twisting his hand to curl around Mike's jaw, Edwards lifted his head, forcing him to look up at him and unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket. 

Mike lungs refused to work when his gaze was able to focus on Edwards’s hand. Crumbled and worn down, more than he remembered, was his picture, the one that he had been able to snag of Grantaire and himself that one day in Connecticut.  It was a terrible picture and he loved it and Edwards was tainting it simply by holding it.

“And it would appear that you like it very much.” Edwards contemplated aloud. “I would go so far as to say _love_.”

Edward's tongue curled around the word like it was something trivial and sneered at the end when his teeth met his bottom lip to drag out the v. He let go of Mike and ripped the picture in half, crumpling the side that had Mike’s face on it before tossing it over his shoulder. Mike's breath caught in his throat, jerking when he heard the paper rip and he stopped himself from trying to reach out for the picture.

Leaning down so that he was eye level, the same dead green gaze commanding Mike’s attention, Edward's held up the remaining half of the picture where Grantaire was peeking from around Mike's shoulder.

“Go to hell.” He wasn't sure if the wetness that rolled down his cheek was from the water earlier or tears but his throat tightened making his voice shake. Grantaire. Would he be looking for Mike yet? If there was one person in this world who could find him, it was Grantaire. He had all but forced himself not to think of Grantaire his entire nightmare with Edwards and his men because if he did the ache in his chest would have been too much. Too distracting. He didn't need Grantaire, he could handle this on his own. He could take care of himself. 

But he wanted him. He did need him so deeply it physically hurt. And he wasn't getting out of this. Edwards may have implied that he wasn't planning on killing Mike even after he gave up Odin's location but that didn't mean Mike would be alive for much longer after. He needed help. He needed  _Grantaire's_ help because he didn't know what to do. 

“If I were you,” Edwards said calmly. “I would think very carefully of how far you are willing to go before I lose my patience entirely.”

Mike's nostrils flared and he bit on his cheek until he could taste blood but his eyes burned and another tear rolled down the side of his face. Grantaire was in danger. No one was suppose to know about Grantaire and now Edwards was waving his picture in Mike's face, gloating. Grantaire was in danger because of Mike. He was trapped in his safe house until he could debrief and these people knew about him. They were going to kill him and it was going to be Mike's fault because he didn't want to play into whatever game Edwards's was mastering. He couldn't even remember the last thing he said to Grantaire. Had it been I love you? Mike didn't think it was.  

He was so tired. He couldn't do it alone and he was so very much alone. Marius couldn't even  _look_ at him. His friends at Graceland couldn't stand him. And soon, Grantaire could be dead because of him. Mike had been right all along. Enjolras had his friends, his family, behind him to catch him when he fell. Mike had no one. He had fallen already and crashed hard onto the ground, shattering when his body met the Earth. He was alone. But maybe he could break Grantaire's fall. 

* * *

Marcus looked like hell as he stared into the expensive mirror. His eyes were blood shot, sunken into his head and hidden by dark hanging circles. 

"Jesus, kid." Donnie sighed to himself as he shifted his hold over his phone. 

Marcus's mouth was slack but his face was tight, controlled to remain blank but not unfeeling. He wouldn't have been able to control those if he tried. 

"Did you know?" Marcus asked even though he knew he wouldn't be able to hear Donnie's response. His voice was raw, gasping with emotion. Donnie pressed his hand to his mouth, digging his nails into his chin, and swallowing back the knot that was steadily crawling into the back of his throat. 

Marius looked broken and Bahorel had been apart of it.

"He's told them the address," Marcus said, lifting his chin to his reflection, pointedly looking so that Donnie would see him through the camera. "They intend to meet tomorrow afternoon."

And without another word, Marcus unclipped his tie pin and set it on the counter, leaving Donnie to stare at a crooked shot of a sink faucet and to pretend that he couldn't hear the muffled sound of Marius's sob as he left the room. 


	8. Chapter 8

“Anything on your end, Johnny?” Charlie asked over the comm system, shifting in her seat in the van.

“Negative.”

Donnie resisted the urge to pace the room, settling on checking again that Briggs remained alone in the small condo. The area was covered. He was scanning the street and monitors with Grantaire, who was providing cover with an impressive looking sniper rifle. Once he had set up shop, he had scarcely moved an inch, keeping his gaze on where ever his scope was focusing. Briggs was standing in as Odin with Johnny and Bates heading tactical teams throughout the building. Charlie had been placed to run op and Paige was on the ground at the small beach cafe, her soft sun dress blowing as the afternoon ocean wind kicked in. He saw Grantaire shift to accommodating the change in wind patterns before falling into place again. The street was small but quiet and there was hardly anyone out other than the random few trying to enjoy the soft afternoon light. Everything was in place. Everything except the man of the hour. 

Briggs walked in front of the window again, casting a shadow onto the street and making it as obvious as he could that someone was in the apartment without actually getting shot. 

“You’re guy’s a no show, Donnie,” Charlie said after another ten minutes of radio silence. This time, Donnie did start to pace and glanced at his watch. Forty minutes has passed since the meet was suppose to go down. Ten even twenty wasn't anything to raise a concern, Edwards would have had Jon survey the area long before he showed up anywhere. But forty minutes, however, made Donnie nervous and he itched at his beard absently, raking his nails through his hair before falling back to his side with a slap on his thigh. 

No, he had to be. Edwards didn’t _miss_ meetings, especially with something as important as finding Odin. And no matter what he said, Edwards was losing his time slot. He would have had to have known that the Russians were looking into the free real-estate and Caza wouldn't stay quiet for long. He would have to move soon. Even if he sent Fredric, _someone_  had to be there. Donnie picked up his binoculars and stalked over to the window. He scrutinized the area, searching everyone's face who walked by. Nothing. Briggs shifted on the monitor, sighing impatiently.

“He isn’t here,” Grantaire said. Donnie scowled and he looked again. He had to be there. He’d taken the bait. Donnie had seen him take it when he came to announce the location to the others looking like the cat who got the cream. The bastard had been smug! He had to be there!

Unless he wasn’t.

Grantaire flicked a glance to him when Donnie's breath caught deep in his throat like a rock. Donnie cursed lowly before spinning on his heel and snatching his walkie talkie from the table.

“Call it!” Donnie practically shouted making the others wince. Grantaire disassembled his rifle before Donnie yanked his phone out of his pocket as he took off into a sprint down the hallway.

He ran down the stairwell at neck breaking speed, vaulting onto landings and pumping his legs until his thighs burned. Grantaire kept up with him, swinging his bag over his shoulder as they went. Jumping the last of the three steps, Donnie reached the street and raced past Paige and Johnny. 

“Where are you _going_?” Paige called but he ignored her and dove into his truck. Without looking he threw his engine on, the truck puttering awake and vibrating beneath him at the sudden thrust into motion. Grantaire jumped into the passenger seat, his brow raised.

“Shit!” Donnie spat out at his phone again. He shifted the truck into drive and slammed his foot onto the gas. 

"Donnie!" Someone shouted before his truck raced away from the scene. 

“What’s going on?” Grantaire asked, his voice, though calm, was tight. Donnie tossed the phone to him and took a wild left turn that had his wheels screeching and horns blaring.

The video on the camera was black. Grantaire swore and held on as Donnie took a right that had the wheels smoking burnt rubber.

* * *

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he entered the room or at least what he was hoping for. Maybe, that this was all a painful dream. Maybe. Or some psychotic break! God knows that Marcus  had a history that psychologists could write novels upon novels on. Thesis! Dissertations! Anything to explain why his skin suddenly felt like he should rip it off and burn it, shrouded in a shame that he didn’t even know could exist.

But as he made his way into the room with his heart beating hard enough that he could hear it in his ears, there he was, still a sight of splendor even when he had been clawed down from his pedestal and beaten into submission. Enjolras. He could remember Grantaire drunkenly muttering about the cruelties of Apollo with a mixture of praises and longing.

Enjolras may not have been a god but he was the closest thing to it. He had been everything that Marius had always dreamed of being. Brave, loyal, driven. He stood for something proudly in the face of those that were larger and more intimidating. But more importantly, he had made Marius want try, want to be more than a carbon copy in a long legacy of the same person. He made him want be a man instead of a name. 

And in turn, Marius had failed him.

Mike glanced up and his eyes widened when he caught sight of Marcus. Before, Marius would have felt a thrum of excitement flow through him at just the look. They all would have, but instead Marcus wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He shrank within himself and curled his arms around his chest, stopping to stand in front of Mike. Something passed over Mike’s face that he couldn’t place a name on but his shoulders dropped and he swallowed.

“I---“

“I’m sorry!” Mike said at the same time Marcus began. Marcus startled, frowning because... no. No, why was Enjolras apologizing?

“I… Don’t know what’s happening?” He said it as a statement but the question made his voice tilt up uncertainly.

"Marius, I---" But Marcus flinched, snapping his eyes shut. 

"Please don't call me that." None of it made sense! He felt like he had stolen someone else's skin and was trying to pass it off as his own. Maybe this was his penance for everything he had ever done in his life. He was having to face the one person that he had disappointed the most. He opened his eyes and glanced at Enjolras. 

“I can explain,” Mike said, his eyes painfully blue around the deep bruises. How could he forget those eyes? They had been right in front of his face!

“We have to get out of here first!” Mike began but Marcus shook his head.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said. Mike lifted a curious brow, his mouth opening and closing but Marcus held out a hand. “I---“

The door opened, startling both of them. Fredric and Jon didn’t spare a glance at Marcus as they moved past him to Mike. The soft expression was replaced immediately with something hard, a flare of defiance that was so Enjolras it hurt, waving on like a banner on his face. 

Fredric held a water bottle to Mike’s lips, shaking it in front of him.

“Drink.” He said simply pushing the bottle closer. Mike twisted his lips together in disgust and jerked his head away. Jon moved behind Mike and clenched a hand over around his nose.

“What are you doing?” Marcus asked as Mike began to lurch against his bonds, unable to breath from the hand clamping his nose shut and refusing to open his mouth. “Stop it!”

Mike choked, coughed, and then gasped a strangled wheezing sound, his body taking over his will and forcing him to breathe. Marcus flinched with Mike when Fredric poured the contents of the water bottle into Mike’s mouth. Jon covered his mouth with his other hand and forced Mike to swallow. When he had swallowed, he let go of Mike who sucked a deep breath of air, choking and making his chest heave. Jon grabbed his jaw and held his mouth open for Fredric to pour more in.

“What is this?” Marcus hated how his voice quivered but Jon and Fredric continued to ignore him and repeated the agonizing process again. Mike sagged in exhaustion after he swallowed another mouthful.

 _Move, you idiot!_ Marius was egging Marcus to move, jabbing at him to go to Enjolras but Marcus staggered at the first step.

“What are you doing to him?” He asked. "Aren't you supposed to be with my grandfather?"

“Relax, Marcus.” Marcus froze on instinct at the sound of his grandfather’s calm voice. The hard soles of Madden's shoes echoed throughout the deathly silent room.  

The defiant glare flickered across Mike’s eyes like a candle about to dim as his head began to droop onto his shoulder. He sagged against Fredric as his grandfather’s men began to untie the wounded agent.

“What did you give him?” Marcus spun around to his grandfather who was watching the scene with an impassive eye. Were they planning on taking Mike with them to the meeting with Odin? Why---

Mike fought but Jon swung a punch into his gut, knocking the breath from him and making him crumple around his fist. His weak struggles ended when his legs gave out under him and a whimper escaped his lips when his feet took any weight, the cuts still flaring every so often after their time with Fredric's knife and the salt water. Jon appeared beside the drugged agent and held him up.

“Where are we going?” Marcus asked. Madden didn’t answer him as he stared appraisingly at the agent, a look he had seen a hundred times when his grandfather was examining a piece he was planning on hawking around. Marius practically snarled at the thought of his grandfather looking at Enjolras like he was a piece of meat.

“Grandfather!” He insisted, tired of being ignored. Madden turned to him with a tired sigh like Marcus was an eight year old and interrupting a meeting again.

He didn’t expect the pain of a bullet until after he heard the blast.

“No!” Mike shouted hoarsely, struggling to gain his footing. Marcus gasped as the white heat tore down his arm and the side of his chest. He crumpled to the floor with a pained cry, twitching when the ground broke his fall. 

Blood sluggishly oozed from his shoulder and he felt an alarming cool rush pass through his body as his grandfather calmly towered over him, gun pointed at his heart.

“Don’t pout, Marcus.” Madden scolded. The gun moved and Marcus screamed when another bullet ripped through his thigh. “I thought you didn’t want to be here."

Marcus twitched on the ground, his focus on consciousness losing against the blood lose. Sucking in a deep breath he glared up at his grandfather, jutting out his chin to the man and spitting at his feet.

"I gave you everything. An education, a home, everything." Madden snarled not even bothering to look at the bloody spit on his shoes. "But now I see. You’re just as useless as your father.”

“Don’t!... Stop!” Mike lurched forward, slipping enough to stretch his hand out to him. He dropped to the ground, dragging the two men with him before Jon and Fredric yanked him back again. Marcus rolled towards him and green eyes met blue before Edwards stepped in between them.

“Take him.” Mike felt Fredric and Jon pull him away and his feet clumsily tripped under him as he fought against them.

'I'm sorry' Marcus mouthed, watching as they dragged Mike away. Edwards took aim over Marcus as they pulled Mike through the door. 

“Stop!” He slurred, feeling the weightlessness of the drugs clouding over him. Another gunshot rang out and then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lateness of this update! I've contracted a bit of the plague and was trying to get some rest over the weekend before classes on Monday.


	9. Chapter 9

Donnie wasn’t even sure he turned off his truck when he jumped out of the driver seat, gun out, with Grantaire behind him as he ran towards the warehouse. Grantaire’s footsteps were much quieter than his and he was scanning a lot sharper than Donnie’s but he couldn’t seem to care. Because in that moment, despite being fairly positive that the warehouse was empty, he had no idea where Marius was. They moved together in a cohesive combination of training and skill but it was sloppy by textbook standards. Clearing the area and moving from one room to the next only grew the deep unsettling panic in the base of Donnie’s throat that thankfully kept him from calling out and getting them both killed.

Grantaire took point after they switched places and his gun led him into the final room, his weight fully on his front leg and his back leg bracing himself in case he had to spring away. But Donnie pushed past him and ran into the room. Anyone could have shot him at any time and he wouldn’t have felt it because all he could see was Marcus lying on the ground, not moving.

Donnie slid beside Marcus, dust fuming around him as he dropped to the ground.

“Marcus!” He called, slapping his unresponsive face and checking for a pulse. His hand came away with blood coating his palm. “Shit… Marcus! C’mon kid… Wake up.”

Unfocused green eyes winced open and Marcus’s breath hitched. Rolling his head away, he closed his eyes again.

“No, Marcus! Stay awake! Stay with me!” Donnie cupped his face, slapping him lightly again. Scrunching his nose and grimacing, Marcus weakly tried to swat Donnie away but opened his eyes all the same.

Donnie inspected Marcus, continuing to tap him on the face and glancing over at Grantaire. Grantaire eyed them carefully before turning to search the rest of the room. Taking out his phone, he dialed and waited, barking down at dispatch before anyone could interrupt him.

“I need a bus! Gunshot wounds to the left thigh and right shoulder.” He got in before relaying the address and tossing his phone as he pulled his belt off. Wrapping the leather around the upper part of Marcus’s thigh and tying a tight knot had Marcus arching off of the ground with a cry.

“Bahorel?” Marcus asked, his voice hitching on the roll of his tongue, scrambling to grab onto Donnie’s arm. Donnie held out his hand, trying to ignore the red stains of blood already seeping into the crevices of his skin.

“Yeah, kid,” he said softly, his nose twitching as he sniffed. “It’s me.”

“Are you real?” Marcus asked hurriedly. He mewled as Donnie tightened his belt and scrambled to get away from the pain. “Please… Please… Please be real… Please don’t be… memories… I---“

“I’m real,” Donnie said. He grabbed Marcus’s hand and held his palm to his chest. “Do you feel that?”

Marcus blinked, staring at his hand, amazed. He splayed his fingers across the planes of Donnie’s chest, feeling the heat and sweat and---

“Marcus!” Donnie snapped. “Do you feel that?”

“Y…Yes.” He swallowed. A heart beat. It was definitely a heartbeat. Something in Donnie’s expression softened and he kneaded his fingers between Marcus’s.

“I’m real. Grantaire’s real. You’re real,” he said. Marcus nodded, still memorized by the feeling of a heartbeat. “Stay with me, kid.”

Marcus let his head drop, a strangled gasp tearing through him as Donnie pressed down on the bullet wound on his shoulder.

Grantaire stood a few feet away from them and stared at the empty chair until his eye twitched. His mouth dried at the sight of the blood, heat pooling into the pit of his stomach as he spotted the nail marks on the wood from Mike’s clawing fingers. With his job came the ability to distance himself. His marks were never people to him. It was cold and unfeeling and something that Mike had never understood but it was his only way to keep his sanity. The world was a shitty place and Grantaire was just another part of it. It was never personal. But at the moment, Grantaire didn’t even fight the urge to shoot someone until they were dead. An angry urge he had felt since the day he and Mike had taken hands broke down every wall he had built. Every restraint he had placed of himself was ripped to shreds. Eight bullets. He would need eight bullets to make them pay. Because that was Enjolras’s blood and Enjolras’s pain and someone had caused it.

It was in that moment that he decided he would not stop until Edwards’s was dead.

A crumpled paper caught his attention as his foot kicked it to the side. He picked it up with a frown. As he smoothed it out, he felt his blood run cold.

“Marcus!” Donnie furrowed his brow as Grantaire knelt beside him. Marcus blinked uncertainly at him. “Marcus, listen to me.”

Grantaire held the paper in front of Marcus, his hands shaking and his voice bordering on panic.

“Do you know where this came from?” Grantaire asked. Marcus frowned, confusion and pain making his attempts to remain lucid obsolete.

“Do you know who gave this to you?” Marcus bit his lip, shaking his head.

“What is it?” Donnie asked. The distant wailing of sirens broke through the warehouse.

“It’s our picture,” Grantaire spat, holding the ruined photo in his hand. Mike’s smiling face squinted up at them with the beginnings of brunet curls on his neck.

“What does that mean?” Donnie asked. The sirens were growing louder.

“It means that someone in Graceland sold us out,” Grantaire said looking murderous. Donnie swore, feeling like an icicle had pierced his back and twisted.

Next to Marcus, leaving the ground with a tiny scorch mark and a dent the size of a bullet, was the remains of the tiepin Donnie had hidden a camera in. It had been listed in the file he had given the others. If his hands weren’t trying to keep the blood oozing out of Marius, Donnie would have punched something until his knuckles were bruised and broken.

“Killian…” Marcus mumbled, his breath heaving and his eyes closing. “Killian… he’s… 'th Killian…”

Donnie slapped Marcus, shaking him until he opened his eyes. Tires were screeching to a halt outside and people were barking orders.

“Go!” He exclaimed, glaring at Grantaire. “Go now! I’ll meet you later.”

With a curt nod, Grantaire stood and was gone before the first squad team broke through the doors.

“Killian…” Marcus whispered before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his body lost its fight with consciousness. Bahorel’s screaming of his name faded away into another distant memory as he went to sleep.

* * *

“You still haven’t found either of them?” Briggs asked, his phone pressed to his ear. Leaning his weight on the old unreliable railing sent a thrill down his spine. One wrong shift of his body would send him plummeting to the rough waves. A storm was brewing further out in the water, making the waves roll alive, the ocean swelling into a nightmare of high walls of water and power. It thrummed through Briggs’s veins.

“No,” Charlie said, her voice tight with frustration. “I’m telling you, Briggs, they aren’t telling us something.”

“Charlie, relax,” Briggs said soothingly. “Let’s find them first. We know R’s always been a bit of a mystery.”

“Yeah, well, Donnie didn’t used to be,” she said. “Where are you?”

Briggs looked out at the waves again, scanning the empty beach, before glancing down at the old wood beneath his hand. “Just getting some air.”

“Come home soon,” Charlie said softly. “Last thing we need is for you to disappear too.”

“Never,” he said with a smile. “Love you.”

When they hung up, he pocketed his phone and pressed his weight further on the wooden beam. It shifted beneath his weight but held all the same and a gust of wind sent his dark hair into a wild frenzy on his head. The air shifted with the storm and so did the air on the pier.

“I see you got my message,” Briggs said off handedly. The sound of the waves drowned out the hard soles against the damp withered wood of the pier.

“I did,” the elegant English voice said. Edwards pursed his lips as he stepped beside him, staring out to the sea line.

“I have many eyes and ears to my disposal. So, your information no matter how informative was rather _late._ ”Briggs nodded with a shrug.

“I get it,” Briggs said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“It’s not in my nature to owe anyone ever, no.” Edwards hummed. He regarded Briggs coldly. “Odin Rossi.”

Briggs inclined his head shortly and Edwards casually glanced at the growing storm like one would a gnat.

“I heard you got rid of that kid who saw me.” Briggs spun around and held out his hand. “Guess that means I owe you.”

Edwards glanced at the hand and barely held in his sneer. When it was clear Edwards wasn’t going to shake his hand and the moment had been dragged into awkward, Briggs curled his hand into a fist and crossed his arms over his chest.

“What’d you do with him?”

Edwards sighed impatiently and arched a brow.

“Not that it matters to you what I do with my business but my asset has been liquidated,” he said with a bored flip of his tone. “So, if you were concerned about an impending FBI investigation you may rest easy.”

Briggs rolled his shoulders, tilting his had as he did. “I hear the Westies are looking to expand.”

“Half.” Edwards corrected. Briggs lifted a brow but Edwards continued to pointedly look out towards the water. “If you are going to be dealing a hand in this then you are entitled to know that another hand will strike you down eventually.”

“Well,” Briggs said with a certain nod. “That’s why I’m not risking a hand.”

Edwards’s sharp glare turned on him in an instant, his face pinched but Briggs held up a hand.

“Not yet at least,” he said. Edwards curled his lips and Briggs met him with a challenging frown of his own. “Caza is still hunting me down.”

“Caza is irrelevant.” Edwards dismissed.

“Caza is always relevant.” Briggs snapped. Edwards’s expression tightened and the flash of a temper passed across his face. Donnie had said Edwards’s temper was the only indication the man was human and he was starting to see why. It was quick to light and hard to extinguish permanently. One wrong change of wind and it was a house fire once again. Briggs had had enough of house fires to last him a lifetime.  “Caza doesn’t bow out gracefully. Your clients want to move in on their territory, that's fine. But there will be a blood bath and I’m not about to stick my neck in the middle of a chopping block and wait for someone to drop the guillotine.”

Edwards pursed his lips and scrutinized Briggs carefully.

“Interesting choice of metaphor,” he said finally before regarding Briggs again and lifting his chin. “You are saying that you won’t work for my clients.”

“Not until I know for certain Caza is out of the picture for good.” Briggs shrugged. Edwards didn’t say anything for a moment, regarding Briggs closely before nodding.

“Very well,” he said after seeing whatever it was he was looking for. “I will let my client know.”

Without another word, Edwards spun on his heel, his expensive trench coat billowing in the wind as another gust of cold air raced around them.

“Oh and by the way,” Briggs called when the wind died down. Edwards stopped but didn’t turn. “You know better than anyone what happens to people who’ve seen my face.”

“Are you threatening me?” Edwards asked, an odd light tune lifting in his tone, amused. Briggs smirked at his back humorlessly.

“Just stating a commonality,” Briggs said. Edwards didn’t respond other than a laugh, the sound feeling cold and dead to Briggs’s ears, before he walked away.


	10. Chapter 10

Grantaire was up and moving towards the door when the soft knocking rapped against the wood by exhausted knuckles. Donnie was slumped in on himself, fists in his pockets and bracketing his whole body upright. He looked ready to fall over any minute. A sudden plummeting feeling dropped down in Grantaire’s throat and he tried to swallow past the lump that knotted there.

“How is he?” Grantaire asked, bracing himself for the worst. He had always assumed that the concept of death, among his friends and himself, would be an easier pill to swallow after remembering waking up and seeing each of them dead on the ground and on the barricade and in the small little cafe they had adopted into their tight group. But if Marius was gone then Grantaire wasn’t sure he would be able to take finding the others ever. With Marius gone it already felt like a little piece of the world he was starting to build was crumbling away. With Marius gone, he was afraid. And with his fear and his anger, his body felt like it would combust any second. Donnie pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and sighed.

“Stable,” he said, his voice rough and tired. “Alive. He had two bullets in him but he… he’s alive.”

Alive. Grantaire pushed a shaky hand through his inky curls, tugging on the strands. The pain made his headache throb but it reminded him that he was real, present, so he didn't care. 

“Well,” a voice said, breathlessly relieved and draping a calm over them. “Thank goodness for that.”

Donnie froze mid step, his shoulders bunching together harshly. Grantaire could see his muscles stiffen beneath his shirt, his neck tensing and his breathing dropping into short swallow bursts. With wide, tired eyes he blinked once, and then jerked his head in the side.

“’Ferre,” he said with a thick breathy sound passing through his lips. Combeferre stood from his seat, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He stepped forward and met Donnie half way, catching him as the DEA agent rushed into his arms. The hug was as fierce as the one he’d given Grantaire but with a degree of gentleness.

Donnie was trembling against George. Whether from shock or his body finally giving into the exhaustion, neither said. Grantaire ran a hand through his wild curls giving the two a minute. Combeferre had that effect on people. The calm and the clear pointed focus spreading throughout the others like a soothing wind. That had been something that had made Enjolras and Combeferre work so well together. Enjolras was the wild fire and Combeferre had been the wind that had spread the flames amongst the crowd. To say that he and Mike hadn’t had the near same reaction would have been a downright lie.

He swallowed against the tangled web of anxiety at the thought of Mike. They didn’t know where Mike was, didn’t know what direction he had even gone, but he would find him. He would always find him. Marius was alive and had given them a clue. Not just a clue, a name. Grantaire could work with a name. He had to or…

He shook his head again.

George cleared his throat and pulled away though, his hand remained on Donnie’s shoulder.

“How long has it been since you two slept?” He asked seriously, his brow arching high above the frame of his glasses.

“That’s cute,” Donnie said with a smirk. He patted him twice on the ribs before stepping away. “All these years and you're still a momma hen. What are you doing here?”

George’s eyebrows knitted together at Donnie’s obvious deflection, pursing his lips as if to argue.

“I came as soon as I could. Last I spoke with Mike, all we were looking at was a bus line.” George peered over his glasses at Grantaire, scrutinizing him as well. Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest to keep from fidgeting. Leaning against the wall, Grantaire tossed an easy smirk his way before his lips fell into a thin line.

“But,” George continued. “Grantaire informed me that we’ve had a little detour from that agenda.”

Donnie scoffed, the sound coming out bitter and dark.The heat escalated faster than either of them could react. He raked angry nails through his beard, dragging his hand to cover his face, before slamming his fist into the table. The cheap wood jumped in protest and his elbow knocked into a chair, sending it toppling over.

“Shit!” He yelled before smothering his voice by his hand. Grantaire and Combeferre said nothing, watching his agitation shimmer as he began to pace.

“This is all my fault,” Donnie said. His hands shook as he curled and uncurled his fingers into tight fists. “I should have listened to you, R. If I had gone in, if I hadn’t waited, _none_ of this wouldn’t have happened. Marcus… Marcus wouldn’t be in some hospital bed with two goddamn holes in him and Mike would be here.”

“Don’t,” Grantaire said, soft but firm. Donnie pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, harder this time and full of a punishing pressure.

“I did this, R,” Donnie said after a shuddered breath ripped from his chest. “I break things. That’s all I do. That’s all I ever did! This life and the last! I went after them, I found Marcus, I brought him into this and now he’s broken. And because of that I’ve broken Enjolras now. I mean… we can’t even find him. He’s gone!”

“We have a name.”

“Madden Edwards isn’t associated with anyone by the name of Killian. Trust me, I would know.“ Donnie scoffed out a bitter dark bark as he paced. “I’ve only spent the past year watching his ever move.”

He punctuated his words with a kick to the already down chair, his boot leaving a dent in the metal. “There is no link to someone by the name of Killian that we could find.  We may be too late! Enjolras could already be dead.”

“He’s not.” Grantaire snapped harshly. Donnie’s eyes flashed and the frantic hope that had been there before, the laughter that had stayed in his face was gone. Hope fled when the one who carried it couldn’t do so anymore. Enjolras was gone.

“How do you know?” Donnie threw back. “Edwards is gone! Enjolras with him… How do you know?

“Because I would know,” Grantaire said, too much emotion making his voice crack into a desperate growl. Donnie recoiled back, his eyes wide as the anger was replaced with regret in a matter of seconds.

“He’s not dead,” Grantaire said. Donnie licked his lips to say something but covered his mouth with his hand instead. “I would feel something if he was!”

He would. He would have felt dead. Because without Mike, without Enjolras, Grantaire had no reason to live. Dramatic and perhaps a little extreme but it was the truth. Before he remembered everything, Grantaire had felt like a wisp in the wind. In one place and out the other. But never really there. Mike anchored him, Enjolras gave him a reason, and if he was gone then R was sure that he’d feel the deep hollow abyss of death inside of him. A gaping hole that would be in the place where his heart would have been.

He would have felt something!

Something inside of him cracked, a memory flashing through him like a report of gunfire. A memory of Enjolras falling back as Grantaire’s hand went slack with death, unable to catch his fall.

“He’s not dead.” He wasn’t sure if he was the one who said it but the desperate wheezing voice had to be his. He was the only one in the room struggling to breathe!

“No, he isn’t.” George’s voice was steady, something for Grantaire to latch onto and keep him grounded. Not necessarily centered but pointed in a way that didn’t lead into a full on crippling panic. “If Madden Edwards wanted him dead he wouldn’t have taken him when he evacuated the warehouse.”

George leveled a stern glare on both of them, his lips pulling into a frown and making his glasses side down his nose.

“Both of you sit down. _Now.”_ Donnie and Grantaire looked at the vacant chairs like they were foreign concepts and didn’t move. George sighed, a hint of impatience straining in the breath. “You won’t do either of them any good passing out from exhaustion.”

Grantaire dropped into the closest chair, his hands shaking in his lap, but Donnie kept staring at the chair.

“None of this was your fault, Bahorel.” Donnie jerked as if he had been hit when he heard the name with George’s soft tone.

“I---“

“You did something that someone should have done for Marius a long time ago,” George said. He stepped forward and placed a guiding hand on Donnie’s shoulder. “You gave him an out, an escape. I feel comfortable saying that in your last life and this one as well you have done nothing but try to protect us.”

He maneuvered Donnie into one of the fold out chairs, the tired DEA agent pliant and with a heavy set of limbs. When he was finally sitting, he wrapped his arms around himself, his elbows braced against the table and his head hang until his chin pressed against his chest. His hands curled themselves around his shoulders, gripping onto the broad muscles and squeezing. It was an act of self-comfort and Grantaire didn’t comment. Bahorel wouldn’t have wanted him too.

Thunder rolled outside, a distant hum making the tension in the room audible.

“So, what do we know?” George asked but neither of them answered. Donnie took a breath through his nose, the curls in his beard flying as he leveled a pointed stare at Grantaire.

“You really think someone at Graceland sold Mike out?” He asked finally. Grantaire jerked his head into a swift nod, rolling his shoulders back. Donnie swore under his breath and hid his face into his hands. Conflict was becoming easier and easier to read on Donnie’s face as the hours went on. He looked exhausted and Grantaire was beginning to feel the edging of the day wearing thin on his resolve too.

“Graceland was suppose to be safe,” Donnie mumbled. George stepped away to the kitchen busying himself with making some shit instant coffee that had been in the cupboard since before Grantaire had scoped out the apartment as a possible safe house.

Grantaire hummed as another boom of thunder shook through the thin walls. Graceland had been safe, for a while, but things changed. He wasn’t sure when and he wasn’t sure how but Mike had sensed it and so had Grantaire. Graceland had been warm and filled with good---albeit morally twisted--- people. Charlie was harsh and pressed too hard but she iced the wounds she made and nurtured the wounds other had made as if they were her own cuts. Johnny was hyper and needy and impulsive but he was the first to stand behind you when you needed someone.  

It had been the closest place Grantaire had ever been able to call home. And now it was tainted, like a crack in paint.

“Do you know who it is?” Donnie asked though it sounded like he didn’t want to know. When Grantaire didn’t answer right away, Donnie looked up at him with a long blink of his eyes.

Grantaire licked his lips, cocking his head to the side with a shrug. “I’ve got an idea.”

Donnie’s eyes narrowed into slits.

“Say it then, R. We don’t have all damn night!” He snapped. George placed a cup of coffee in front of Donnie with a click of the ceramic mug and sat across from him. His expression, as neutral as it was, couldn’t hide the flare of curiosity.

“Briggs,” Grantaire said. The air shot out from Donnie with a sharp exhale. As if he could have looked any more exhausted, Donnie slumped onto the table.

“Briggs is a lot of things but…” Donnie began, torn. “Graceland and the people in it… he’d die to protect it…”

“Unless he’s Odin,” Grantaire said carefully.

“This again?” Donnie asked, his eyes flashing. “Charlie already fell down that rabbit hole head first.”

Grantaire opened his mouth to argue but George’s crisp voice cut through them with a definitive end to the eventual blow up.

“May I suggest another line of discussion?” He asked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “As prudent as it is to find out which one of your housemates sold Mike out, we should shelf it for another time. We only have a short window to act. Killian---”

“I already told you,” Donnie interrupted him. “Edwards isn’t associated with anyone named Killian. I’ve been over his contacts. _Twice._ “

“Maybe this is a new contact. He was, after all, trying to expand the reach of the Irish mob to the west coast.”

Grantaire frowned. “Possible but unlikely. The only new contact he was searching for was Odin. Anyone else that he’s been in contact with over the past week has been old.”

“You been watching my surveillance tapes?” Donnie asked roughly but his lips curling into a smirk. Grantaire shrugged.

Donnie swiveled in his seat, tilting his head. George squared his graze as he cocked a brow high on his forehead.

“What are you doing here? You said that Mike was having you look into some things but why didn’t you just call?” He asked.

George looked at them for a long minute, pursing his lips. Combeferre had never felt comfortable discussing what he spoke about with Enjolras unless Enjolras himself brought it up. But George supposed they were past the bare level of discretion he had finally been able to build between Mike and himself.

“Mike asked me to look into the cross Atlantic trading that had been going on to see if there was any connection to the possibility that someone was smuggling contraband in through ports other than the US.” George finally said.

Something Grantaire’s expression softened, remembering a morning in his burned apartment on the floor. That felt like ages ago.

“The name Odin Rossi came up but what I found intrigued me.” George pulled out a package of cigarettes from his pocket. “Madden Edwards, while searching for Odin Rossi for the McNally family in New York, wasn’t the only one apparently. Carlos Solano popped into the conversation.”

“Solano? From the Solano Cartel?” Donnie asked, his mouth twisting. George nodded as he took a long drag, smoke fuming around the cigarette perched in between his fingers. Lifting his mug of coffee to his lips, he cautioned a glance over at Grantaire who had yet to say anything. Grantaire furrowed his brow as he tapped out a random beat along his ribs.

“Solano has been waiting for Bello’s downfall for a while,” Grantaire said. “His whole operation has been seemingly under the radar for years. With Bello’s incarceration, the Caza Cartel suffered a small enough of a blip in their system since their main supplier disappeared.”

A curl of smoke flumed around George’s head as he scratched at his temple. He nodded with a grimace. “So when he caught wind that the FBI were searching into his bus line, it became rather convenient that the FBI then proceeded to go after the Caza Cartel, clearing out the West Coast.”

“You’re saying that Solano set up Caza to get them out of the way.” Donnie finished.

George nodded again. “According to my source, yes.”

“Solano would have had a turf war with the McNallys then.” Donnie's face darkened. 

“Very troubling indeed, seeing as how Maggie McNally had already had an agreement to make Solano her prime supplier.” George added. 

“He was beating them to the punch.”

“Two birds. One stone.” Grantaire said distantly. Pulling his phone out he texted a quick message to one of his friends in intel, ignored the other texts from Charlie and the phone calls from Johnny and Paige, and placed his phone on the table with a definitive thud. That late morning felt like lifetimes ago, when all he had to worry about was Mike getting rug burn and his neighbors complaining about the noise. Part of him kept hoping his phone would light up, alerting him to a text or a phone call, from Mike. That by some miracle he had been dropped off in a ditch somewhere alive and well and sounding pissed as hell that Edwards got away. That by some miracle, Mike would tell him where he was and Grantaire would be in a car and coming to get him.

His cellphone lit up.

Grantaire stifled the choked sound with a hum as he glanced at the screen. It was only intel telling him that he owed them another favor and warning him just how against protocol it was that he was asking them to do.

“And I believe, that Edwards is that stone,” George said, pretending he hadn’t seen the way Grantaire jumped.

Grantaire frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Edwards works for both of them.”

“Yeah,” Donnie said slowly.

“And I’m assuming, because he’s _unfortunately_ still breathing,” George’s lips twisted in distain. “That Solano and Maggie don’t know.”

Donnie didn’t answer and settled for shifting in his seat, thinking.

Grantaire shrugged, running a tired hand through his wild curls and pulling hard at the strands. “It makes sense. He wins on either end and if for some reason he had to bow out then Maggie McNally would be to busy dealing with Solano and vice versa to go after him.”

“Typical Edwards. At the end, someone else’s name is on it.” Donnie scowled darkly. Curling his hand into a fist on the table he released a sharp breath from his nose and drank his lukewarm coffee. “But someone would have to had told Carlos Solano who was looking into the bus line.”

“So someone's been selling Mike out from the start.” The dark pointed look Grantaire leveled on Donnie was juvenile and hardly helpful but he didn’t care. Bahorel and Grantaire had always been able to throw their anger at one another. It was why they had boxed so much. They weren’t men of theory or philosophy. Actions spoke louder than any words that could be spun into poetry. He missed that and from the honest though jagged expression on Donnie’s face, Grantaire could tell he missed it too.

“I’m not sure about that,” George said putting his cigarette out on an ashtray Grantaire didn’t even know he had.

“Why not?”

“Because someone sold Mike out to Edwards,” he said thoughtfully. “If Edwards had known from the beginning then both McNally and Solano would have known he had a source to Odin Rossi. It would benefit them both in different ways to know where Odin is.”

“Edwards hadn’t heard of Mike until someone said he’d seen Odin.” Donnie agreed quietly.

“The men who impersonated Caza didn’t ask Mike about Odin. They just wanted to know what he had in regards to the bus line. I think the first attack was purely coincidental.”

George stood and grabbed Donnie’s empty mug, ignoring Grantaire’s still full and cold one.

“And Solano told the McNally family that he was going to use cruise ships for his transport. Something about his son stepping up in the family. They wouldn’t have known anything about the bus line. He’s been on the move longer than the split between the families.”

Donnie frowned. “This still doesn’t explain why you had to come all the way here.”

“Solano has reach in several organizations, including the Los Angeles police department. Who’s to say how far his reach was in the Scotland Yard as well," George said with a slight shrug. “I figured it would be more helpful if I was here myself to deliver the message.”

Grantaire pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re a civilian, George.”

“Details.” George waved dismissively.

“And not the point,” Donnie said though he eyed George dubiously. “That still doesn’t help us find Mike.”

“Mike is a profit to him and Edwards is gone now. Does that mean we think he picked a side?”

“No.” Donnie’s voice turned brusque again. “No, that bastard cut off loose ends and ran with his tail between his legs.”

Donnie scratched at his beard until Grantaire was sure the skin was raw and red. “Mike would be worthless to Maggie McNally. She wouldn’t know him if he stood next to her.”

Grantaire snapped his mouth shut before he bit out sharp remark. Mike was never worthless. He was on edge and waspish. Donnie was tired and Grantaire was tired. He didn’t want another screaming match.

“So we’re looking at Solano,” he said instead. “But if Mike was a coincidence then what’s Solano to gain?”

“Odin, maybe?” George settled back in his seat. Donnie glared at the banana and water placed in front of him but another pointed stare from George had him peeling away the yellow skin. “If Edwards couldn’t crack him maybe he sold Mike to Solano like a complimentary prize for backing out of the deal?”

“No.” Donnie shook his head and tore off a piece of banana before popping it into his mouth. “Odin would have been more of a bargaining chip to the McNallys. Odin would be more of competition for Solano than anything.”

George nodded. “Certainly not worth buying someone for their secrets.”

Donnie ate another piece of his banana before place the fruit down, ignoring the disapproving hum from George. “If Edwards backed out, it would explain why he left in such a hurry.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “He wasn’t sure but he knew Marcus knew something. Instead of finding out he just tried to shut him up for good. And he’s a business man. So, he’d make as much as he could in a short amount of time.”

“What are you thinking?” George pressed. Grantaire wasn’t sure how much further they could press Donnie before he fell over but it necessary and they all knew it. Donnie knew Edwards, studied him, followed him, and had tried to outsmart him. Donnie was silent for several minutes, his breathing pinched and shallow as he searched the back of his hand for some kind of answer.

“I think he just sold Mike. Got him off his hands.” Donnie finally said. “Put someone else’s name on it.”

“Killian.” George sighed.

“That doesn’t narrow down our search much,” Grantaire said skeptically.

“It can.” George assured them in that deep familiar soothing Combeferre way that he almost believed him. Almost.

“Solano isn’t associated with anyone by the name of Killian.” Donnie argued, apparently feeling the same. “Last DEA checked he hasn’t been involved in human trafficking either. He’s an evil son of a bitch but he has morals.”

Grantaire stopped.

 _Morals_. Solano had morals but---

“Half of the Irish mob has some relative named Killian.” Donnie’s voice rose again. “This is stupid! We’re playing a guessing game of do you know a criminal named Killian here!”

“Carlito.” Grantaire said quickly. It was quiet, more like a whisper but Donnie and George heard him. They whirled around to him, a mixture of curiosity and frustration on their faces.

“What?” Donnie asked.

“Carlos Solano’s son.” Grantaire clarified. “He’s a train wreck. He puts his hands in literally anything that can move for enough money. What’s to say he isn’t involved in moving people for a price?”

“How do know you that?”

“He wasn’t an American citizen until a few years ago,” Grantaire said. George cocked a brow but said nothing at the vague answer. “Even still, we’ve been keeping tabs on him. He was too erratic, too… explosive for us not to look into him.”

Donnie’s phone rang making them all jump. Donnie snatched and stood, pressing the phone to his ear.

“Yeah?” He said in lieu of an answer. Grantaire’s phone was pressed against his ear shortly after, swapping favors and sweet-talking a friend of his in intel, leaving George to stand with an exasperated sigh. It was strange how quickly they had all learned to read each other without saying a word. George pretended to not watch Donnie and Grantaire pace around each other as he cleaned up the discarded mugs and Grantaire pretended not to notice George's attention. They were worried and so was he. Mike’s impulsive tendencies was a trait that reminded George of Enjolras all too well and even though he didn’t flinch when Grantaire had broke the news to him, he could tell that the other man was troubled. Donnie’s frayed nerves weren’t helping either.

Grantaire was pulled from his musings as the voice on the other end of the phone rattled on a list of facts in his ear. Face blank, he pulled open his laptop and typed quickly.

“Got it. Thanks, I owe you one.” The voice on the other end grumbled something before disconnecting.

Bile rose to the top of his throat as he read what he found.

“What’s wrong?” George asked, appearing beside him. Grantaire startled back and held up a hand, pulling his laptop close. Facts. He needed to stick to the facts because if he didn’t he was going to lose it all over the table. Being a sniper meant he could be at a distance. This... this was too close.

George’s face pinched but he took a step back.

Facts. Facts would keep him focused and distant. The feeling that hope was crawling at his chest made him panic.

Carlito Solano had two separate human trafficking ring leaders. One by the name of Sulla and the other named Killian Jade.

There was a database. Grantaire wasn’t stupid. He’d seen this before, a human catalogue filled with pictures of scared frightened people in various positions meant to entice someone with a big enough wallet. He clicked through the pages with a growing sense of disgust in humanity that had always been a regular setting in his life. He had been through a lot of things, seen a lot of things, and heard a lot of things. This was one of the worst. Men and women alike were terrified, beaten, or posed in some way or another and designated--- degraded--- to a number and a handler. Several Eastern European women were clumped together with Sulla. He had heard the name in the back channels but it had never crossed his radar until now. But he was starting to see a pattern with Mike’s bus line case. He hadn’t been far off when he had said there had been plenty of young girls willing to swallow a couple of balloons for a passport and a plane ticket. If only they had been able to see what Grantaire was seeing, maybe then they would have ran away screaming. Better to be desperate than dropped into this hellhole. More than seventy percent of human trafficking victims were women looking for a better life. What wasn’t common knowledge was the number of girls the CIA had found that hadn’t made it out alive.

There were men too.  Most young. Way too young. Boys were easier to hide than girls. No one asked where they were or where they had gone.  Boys were less likely to be looked for. Boys could be beaten or broken and still fetch a price. The difference between the ones meant for labor and the ones meant for another kind of labor all together was apparent and made Grantaire’s stomach roll.

He pressed through, George’s face puckering further and further into an expression of concern. But if by some miracle Mike wasn’t mixed in with these lost souls then he wasn’t going to expose George to what he was filtering through. It was one thing to have statistics and an entirely different thing to see the statistics played out in front of you.

 _Click._ A boy no older than sixteen.  _Click._ A scared looking girl with strawberry curly hair.  _Click._

His heart stopped like it did every time he saw those blue eyes.

Mike.

For a moment he thought he was actually going to be sick, that he was hallucinating from a lack of sleep. But it was him. Someone had grabbed his chin and had made him look into the camera, similar pictures in his profile progressing with bruises and cuts. One photo his cheek was bruised. Another added a cut to his eyebrow. Another, his eyes were crinkled tight in pain.

Grantaire was going to be sick. He could feel the coffee he had barely touched curdle in his stomach and burn at the back of his esophagus.

“Marcus is awake,” Donnie said, his drawl tearing Grantaire away from whatever vacuum he had fallen in. He sucked a deep breath of air into his mouth before he even realized that he hadn’t been breathing.

“He’s going to be fine.” Then, as if he hadn’t noticed the tense line that had drawn down Grantaire’s spine and the nervous energy along George’s shoulder until then, he lifted a brow in a silent question. 

“I found him,” Grantaire rasped.


	11. Chapter 11

Donnie fidgeted with his collar as the soft rain from the storm lingered until its dying breath. He always hated wearing suits, preferring his light shirts and jeans and his  _goddamn_ boots! The only real reassurance he had was the heavy weight of his gun pressed by his ribs, the holster strapped tight around his shoulders.

The hotel wasn’t anything fancy but it wasn’t a dive either. The place was clean and bright, some knock off brand of the Holiday Inn, but Donnie still couldn’t help but glare suspiciously at the smiling receptionist. 

They had a plan. It was a shit plan and someone was most likely going to get shot but it was a plan. Still, Donnie couldn’t help but feel the fluttering thrumming of nerves under his skin. He caught a quick glance at his reflection in a cheap mirror and frowned.

The shower Grantaire and George had practically thrown him in had done wonders for the ache that had set in his bones, his skin less pale and drawn. His beard had been trimmed and cleaned but nothing could be done for the swollen dark circles under his eyes.

At least he looked better than Marcus. Marcus, who had looked sickly pale with the stark contrast of his blood sputtering out of his body…

Donnie stopped himself before he could fall into that rabbit hole. He needed to be present and focused. He worked his jaw slowly and swallowed, pulling at his collar again.

“Mr. Wilson?” A voice asked. When Donnie spun around, he wasn’t sure what he had expected to feel when he found himself toe to toe with Killian Jade.  Anger? Disgust, maybe? But his body felt calm and cool, like a wind before a storm. Still, one hair trigger away from a full out violent twister that would snatch Killian by the scuff of his shirt and beat him senseless until he told Donnie where Mike was… But calm all the same. 

Killian looked everything like his picture Grantaire’s people had pulled up. Short and with a waxy complexion but strong with large shoulders and even larger hands. His grip tightened around Donnie’s when they shook hands, stating the presence he demanded in a room.

“Mr. Jade,” Donnie said in response. Killian smiled and appraised Donnie in a way that made him feel like a prized cattle. These people were sick fucks that could fetch a price for a brick wall if they wanted and Donnie had no qualms about shooting one of the bastards to hell if he had to. The world was better off without them!

But Killian was the only one who could take him to Mike. He needed to be smart about the whole situation.

Killian’s eyes lingered on Donnie’s gun, his smile frozen on his face, but he rebounded faster than any drugged up CI looking for another fix that Donnie had ever seen. His grin was charming and twisted. Donnie had never felt quite so trapped before in his life. He could only imagine what the people that had to deal with him on a day-to-day basis felt like and even then it didn’t compare. It set an uneasy jagged rock in his gut.

“Well,” Killian said. “Follow me.”

Confused, Donnie followed Killian as he led him to the elevator. He had been expecting to be bagged and then taken to some hidden compound or something. Which meant Mike was in the building somewhere and Donnie had no choice but to follow.

This was the stupidest fucking plan they could have ever come up with.

An elevator never felt so stifling. Donnie resisted the urge to pull at his collar again as he stood beside Killian. The skin of his arm that barely pressed against Killian’s own felt hot and prickled at the simple touch. His elbow felt like a knife had dragged down to his hand and his palm curved reflectively around his other wrist.

He could do this. He did this for a living. He could do this.

“I must say, we don’t often have orders that are this rushed,” Killian said as an offhanded remark. Donnie didn’t say anything, merely twitching his eyebrow and staring ahead at the elevator doors.

Killian shifted his weight onto his heels, his elbow knocking into Donnie’s arm once more and he couldn’t promise that if he did it again, he wouldn’t break it.

“We usually prefer to hold on orders for a time to allow for some of the cracks to be repaired...” Killian added.

“My boss knows what he’s buying.” Donnie wished the damn elevator would hurry up. With each ding his nerves clawed up his spine, making his shoulders tense and rigid.  

Killian didn’t seem to notice. “Even still, with rushed orders I can’t guarantee that the purchase will be as cooperative to the new environment. They haven’t been properly adjusted to the---“

“I’m not here to negotiate with you. You and my boss already settled on a number.” George had been surprisingly convincing on the phone. “If you want to back out, that’s your deal. But do it before I have to do the heavy lifting.”

“No, of course,” Killian said soothingly. “It’s just sometimes my clients aren’t aware of the condition of their purchases when they rush order so you can understand my hesitation.”

Donnie gave him a noncommittal grunt in response.

An unsettling pause sat between them and it took Donnie a second to realize that Killian was waiting for him to say something.

“My boss knows what he’s buying.” He repeated. “He’s fine with it.”

Killian studied him closely before the corners of his lips curled into a smirk Donnie wanted to hit off the smarmy bastard. “You don’t approve.”

“He likes his stallions broken.” Donnie had to fight the acid that burned at the back of his throat as he said the words. The elevator signaled their arrival and the doors finally slid open. Donnie stepped out, Killian keeping pace with him.

“Stallions!” Killian laughed. “I like it! Very good.”

Donnie didn’t say anything else as he forced himself to slow down, letting Killian lead the way to a room at the end of the hall. Killian slid the key card into the lock and opened the door with a professional swiftness.

The suite was large and spacious. The living room was disconnected from the bedroom by two large French doors that were pulled aside. A patio extended into the outside and despite the grim day, the shades had been pulled open to let some light into the room. There was only one readily available exit, the front door Killian had just closed.

Donnie smelled something. He couldn’t pin point what it was but it made his stomach roll nevertheless. And he didn’t see Mike.

Donnie whirled on Killian with an impatient frown on his face.

“I don’t have all day here. Where’s the kid?”

With the drop of their fragile discretion, Killian’s professional smile fell as well. A dark thin line pressed across his brows as he pulled his lips tight.

“Like I said,” he said, his voice deep and expectant. “I don’t get rushed orders often. I would like to secure my part of this deal first if you don’t mind.”

He gave a pointed look at the briefcase in Donnie’s hand and with that terrible smile gone, his expression was deep and terrifying. But what Killian had in spirit Donnie had in strength and size. He stood tall, glaring down at Killian. His friends were hurt and that wasn’t in a good position to be, even if Killian had no idea who any of them were to one another.

“You’ll get your money when I see that you even have what my boss is paying for.” Donnie argued.

“And who is your boss,” Killian’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly?”

“Someone with a lot of friends. Enough friends that can cut your little business off at it’s knees and then leave you there to let the birds peck at your body until there's just the bones.” His accent drawled into a deep growl. Killian had no choice but to take a step back but it didn’t level his resolve. Killian opened his mouth, his rebuke on the tip of his tongue, and Donnie realized he had pushed too far and too hard.

“Tell you what,” Donnie said, pursing his lips even as he scrambled to pull back the reins on the deal. “I’ve got better shit to do but my boss will be pissed as all hell if I come back empty handed. I let you see the money, you let me see the merchandise. Then you can count your money. Deal?”

Killian regarded him again, scrutinizing him for a long intense examination as if waiting for Donnie to go for his gun, almost daring him. It wouldn’t have surprised him if Killian had one of his own but no matter how much he wanted to shoot the sick son of a bitch, he was the only ticket they had to finding Mike.

“I thought you weren’t here to negotiate,” Killian said, guarded.

“Blame it on the rain,” Donnie shrugged. “A little fall of rain could make anyone a miserable bastard.”

Again Killian watched Donnie with that same intense scrutiny that made Donnie feel like a caged bird and he had to hold his tongue to keep from snapping.  Just when he knew someone was going to get shot and it was going to be down to who was the quicker draw, Killian or Donnie, Killian nodded and gestured towards the table. Donnie released a short rush of air he hadn’t realize he had been holding as he placed the briefcase on the table and lifted the lid. Normally, he would have put his money on himself but he was running on little sleep and borrowed energy.

Killian peered into the briefcase, staring at the hard cash and probably counting what little he could before the Cheshire smile slipped back onto his face.

“Sorry,” he said to Donnie sheepishly. “Like I said, sometimes my customers don’t know what they are getting into. I would rather avoid the trouble if I can.”

Donnie merely nodded with an expectant lift of his brow.

“This way,” Killian said walking further into the bedroom. Donnie followed him to the doorway, making sure to put his own back toward the exit. Killian stepped over to the closet and Donnie watched with morbid amazement. Was it really that simply? Buying a person who was kept locked up in a closet in a hotel room? It seemed so easy, yet he wasn’t naïve enough to think that Killian hadn’t done the exact thing a hundred times before. How had no one ever caught on?

Pulling open the double doors with a harsh clank, Killian stepped aside with a flourished wave of his hand. Something on the ground jumped at the sudden onslaught of light and Donnie’s nose was hit with the smell from earlier.

Blood. Mike’s blood.

Bahorel raged against the inside of Donnie’s skull. He wanted to hit something. Anything. He wanted to kill Killian. It was a white-hot hatred he had never felt in all his life. But Mike was bruised and beaten at his feet, being traded like some piece of meat for some money. He had known Mike for a little over ten minutes, that fateful night in the safe house. But even when he had been on the verge of panic induced adrenaline, Donnie had seen the spark of rebellious power in the kid. He had seen his friend.

Mike was zoned out, staring at the wall in from of him, completely numb to the world around him.

Mike’s hands were tied in front of him, the skin around his wrists looking red and raw. Old, worn sweats and a stained t-shirt hung off his body and the rest of his skin was pale and drawn. Aside from a few cuts and bruises on his face, a weak stubble ghosted the lining of his jaw. But the blood, the blood was coming from his feet, which were swollen and littered with long thin cuts.

“I’m afraid he was a runner.” Killian said when he saw Donnie’s intense stare at the abused skin. The liar didn’t even know that Donnie knew exactly where they had come from. He hadn’t been expecting it to be as bad as Marcus had described. He had been completely wrong. When he got his hands on Madden and his men…

Mike blinked once slowly, his lashes practically dragging his eyelids closed another time. His gaze was distant, absent of anything that was happening around him.

Licking his lips, Donnie bent down and tilted Mike’s head back by his chin. The kid was limp beneath his guiding touch. Unfocused blue eyes barely responded at what was happening. Donnie snapped his fingers and there was a flicker of recognition at least that Mike had heard  _something_ before the button on Donnie’s shirt became more interesting.

“What’s he on?” Donnie asked feigning resignation to replace the rush of adrenaline that was telling him to fight. Not for the first time, Donnie was thankful he was the one in the room and not Grantaire. He wasn’t sure his friend could have handled seeing Mike like this. Not without killing anyone at least. Donnie was having a hard enough time. Mike’s head lulled to the side as he let him go, blinking a blank dazed stare at the shift of his view.

“A slight sedative. Keeps them manageable but not lifeless if you know what I mean,” Killian said with a dismissive way. “Old fashioned, I know but no one wants to buy a corpse.”

Donnie didn’t laugh and his jaw cracked from the pressure he was applying to his molars. Killian noticed.

With an awkward cough, Killian bent down and lifted Mike from the floor. Grasping him under the arms, Killian grunted, struggling to get Mike’s dead weight to cooperate. It was awkward and would have been hysterical if Donnie wasn’t fighting the urge to rip Killian’s arms out of his sockets. Mike, otherwise focused on being as unhelpful as he possibly could, didn’t respond to the sudden change in scenery until his feet seemed to take some weight. With a sharp hiss, Mike leaned further against Killian until he was practically taking most of Mike's weight.

Donnie filed that thought away for later. He was going to have to carry Mike out because there was no way that he was walking out on his own.

The bed bounced as Killian dropped Mike onto the mattress in an ungraceful heap with a huff.

“Not a corpse, huh?” Donnie quipped when Killian turned to him with a smug smirk.

Killian shrugged, tossing a glare down at Mike who was marveling at the stitching in the cheap comforter.

“It’s a necessary evil. Now,” he said with a clap of his hands. “He’s due for another dose in a little while. I can provide that but first I think we should proceed with payment.”

Killian walked past Donnie, his eyes focused on the money but Donnie moved first. Killian froze in his step at the feeling of Donnie’s gun pressed into the side of his throat.

“Get on your knees before I put bullet in your esophagus.” Donnie gritted out from between his teeth. Killian lifted his hands slowly but didn’t move.

“Now!” Donnie all but threw Killian to the ground and if the heel of his foot found Killian’s hand then who was to blame him? He snatched the gun Killian had tried to reach for and tossed his handcuffs onto his chest.

“Handcuff yourself to the pole in the closet.”

Killian snarled at up at him. Donnie heard Mike shift on the comforter but he had to wait to deal with Mike. Killian still held a couple of card in his hands.

“Do you have any idea who---“ He began but Donnie rolled his eyes.

“Spare me the dramatics. Put the damn handcuffs on before I shoot you in the dick you low life piece of shit.”

Killian snapped his mouth shut as he did the handcuffs around the pole.

Donnie isn’t sure if Bahorel had experience the same gift he seemed to have as a cop. The hypersensitivity from being in a room with people had made being undercover a natural career choice. He could pick up the slightest of things from across the room while watching something else entirely. It made it a bitch and a half when he had to sleep in a room that didn’t have anything going on. Silence was a burden instead of a gift. He would jerk awake to the slightest of sounds. Being in the safe house without his music he played when he slept had meant he had spent a lot of nights alert instead of resting.

Which is why he had heard the shift in Mike’s breathing. It sounded pained and stressed, wheezing past his lips. So, when Donnie turned around, he kept his gun held firmly in his hands.

Mike was standing, his face pinched in pain as his feet supported his weight, but an arm was wrapped around his throat and a gun was pressed into the small hollow space behind his ear.

Grantaire had been right. Someone in Graceland had sold Mike out.

“Put the gun down, Banks,” Bates said, glaring at Donnie from over Mike’s shoulder. Donnie stepped back, placing Killian in between them as he held his gun steady.

“Let him go, Zelanski,” Donnie said. Bates shook his head, hair flailing around his eyes.

“I’m not going to tell you again, Banks,” Bates said. Mike blinked and tried to pull away but Zelanski jerked him hard back into his chest. “Stop moving!”

“So, how’d they get to you?” Donnie asked with a casual drawl, skipping his eyes between Killian and Bates, and taking the attention away from Mike. “Money? C’mon, you expect me to believe a guy like you would let some asshole jerk you around for that?”

The safety clicked off Bates’ gun and he pressed further into Mike’s skull. Donnie fought down the rapid panic that coursed through his chest. He wasn’t going to watch his friends die again!

“Put the gun down, Banks, or I swear to God I’ll put a bullet in his skull.” Again Mike tried to pull away and the severe agony that marred his face when he was forced to stay standing almost had Donnie dropping his gun. But then Bates slotted his leg in between Mike’s legs, giving him a place to put some of his weight. Mike drifted away again once he was no longer in a constant state of discomfort and instead stared ahead.

Donnie had checked Bates record extensively. He was a good agent. He was on top of things in the field, smart, and quick. Nothing extraordinary but above average at least. His record had been nothing but glowing. He never would have put Bates in the same circles as Killian and certainly not included in the things that Edwards had been involved with. So, why?

“Oh,” Donnie said, the thought dawning on him instantly. It all made sense. “You owe him, don’t you?”

His question was met by silence, the only answer he needed.

“Deal with the devil, isn’t it,” Donnie said with a smirk.

“You have no idea.”

“So you’re the one that told Edwards about Mike meeting Odin,” Donnie added with a twist of his lips. “Gave Edwards all the information he needed, let him know that the meet was an op.”

“Among other things,” Bates muttered. “Put the gun down.”

“You got a friend of mine hurt,” Donnie said darkly.

“I got a lot of people’s friends hurt,” Bates said. Donnie couldn’t be certain but he thought he had sensed a small amount of regret in Bates’ tone.

“Bates, I can help you get out from under Edwards’s thumb but I need you to let Mike go.” Donnie tried but Bates shook his head again.

“Shut up.”

“You’re already going to go down for attempted murder and kidnapping of a federal agent---“

“I said shut up.”

“Don’t make it two. Because I swear to God---“

“Shut up!” Bates shouted.

“You have no idea the amount of shit that’s going to come flying your way the moment you walk out of here,” Donnie screamed. Mike startled and stared at Donnie, his glazed eyes straining to focus. “Do you have any idea who will come after you if you kill him?”

“Oh yeah,” Bates snorted. “I met the impressive R. I handled the golden boy Mike Warren twice now. I think I can handle his lazy FBI boyfriend and a couple of washed up agents playing house.”

“I hate to break it to you, Bates,” Donnie said with a snarl. “But you really shouldn’t underestimate, R.”

“Well, I guess, we’ll just have to see then.” He took his leg away, forcing Mike to stand again. He moved the barrel away from Mike’s head and aimed at Donnie’s chest.

“Put your gun---“ Mike’s elbow landed swiftly into Bates’ side. The hard joint made Bates’ ribs audibly snap beneath the force of the hit and with a scream he shoved Mike away, doubling over as he grasped his torso. Mike fell onto the bed with a grunt and a tangle of limps. Bates, straightened himself quickly and was only able to aim at Mike before two shots rang throughout the air.

Donnie’s shot landed in Bates’ chest. The second shot, the one that had come from a sniper rifle one building over, hit Bates in the middle of his forehead.

Bates’ body slumped on top of Mike, turning the white comforter red with his blood.

For a minute, nobody moved. Then Mike began to scream. He pushed Bates’ body off him, blood staining his skin and the old clothes hanging off him, as he propelled himself backwards. His body landed with a thud on the other side of the bed.

Killian was cursing up a storm, staring at Donnie in horror and trying to hide himself further in the closet. Donnie swung a fist down, knocking the cowering man out cold with a solid punch and circled around the bed to Mike who was struggling to stand.

“Mike?” But he couldn’t hear Donnie. Mike looked like a caged stallion caught on a bad day. Hands were scrambling against the wall, searching for purchase and his blue eyes were blown wide. His pupils were still dilated and it was a miracle he was sort of standing at all. Whatever kind of drugs they had forced into him had been strong shit. The kid wasn’t even in the room!

“Mike?” He asked louder. Mike started and threw himself back into the wall. Donnie winced, the stain of blood on the wall biting deep. Mike slid down the wall, his legs doing nothing to support him, and continued to keep ripping open whatever wound he had on his back. Donnie crowded him, avoiding a wild leg Mike had kicked out at him, and tried to keep Mike from doing any more damage. All ideas of easiness and comfort are trashed the moment a victim became a danger to themselves.

“Mike,” he tried. Mike tucked his chin to his chest, bringing his bound hands to cover his head. “Mike! It’s alright.”

Mike mumbled something that Donnie couldn’t hear as Mike curled his legs closer to his body.

“Mike, it’s---“ Donnie stopped as Mike kept mumbling.  Donnie strained to understand him but after several long days with Marcus he was eventually able to pull out the clumsy French words that were spilling out of Mike’s mouth.

Donnie held out a hand and glanced at Killian who was still out cold. He turned back to Mike and placed his hands over Mike’s wrists.

“Enjolras,” he said, the name curling his tongue and feeling familiar. Mike stopped beneath him and lowered his hands from his head. Blue eyes peered up at Donnie, searching his face again as an amazed sound escaped his mouth.

“It’s me, Enjolras. It’s me,” Bahorel said smiling a little at the recognition that passed over Enjolras. Donnie held up another calming hand as he pulled out his pocketknife. “I’m going to get you out of here. Ok? Let me see. Nice and easy. That’s good.”

Things were just spewing out of his mouth as he took Enjolras’s wrists and cut through the ties. The moment his wrists were free, Enjolras launched himself at Bahorel, hugging his friend as tight as he could in his weaken state. Donnie returned the embrace being mindful of Mike’s injuries. He allowed the moment Enjolras needed and just held him before he ran a soothing hand down Mike’s back.

“Alright, c’mon. Let’s get you out of here. Put your arms around my neck.”

It would have been easier to carry Mike fireman style but he had no idea how extensive Mike’s injuries were. He’d rather feel the strain in his back than hurt him any further. Even still, Mike let out a soft cry before he clenched his teeth together as Donnie gathered him into his arms. He was still drugged out of his mind, Donnie reminded himself, as Mike was nothing more than a fumbling, trembling mess of limbs.

But, as he stood, Donnie heard the soft click of the front door and swore.

“Enjolras,” he said lowly as he put Mike back down on the ground. Mike held a death grip on Donnie’s collar that Donnie had to gently untangle.

“Listen to me,” he said just as quiet. “Whatever happens, I need you stay behind me. Do you understand me?”

Mike blinked sluggishly, pale and confused at what Donnie was saying but he didn’t have time.

Spinning around, he pulled his gun out just as two people entered the room.

“Donnie!”

Charlie’s eyes were wide, her face stricken in shock as she took in bloody corpse on the ground and the grisly scene on the bed.

“Bates?” She asked, her voice hoarse as she recognized Bates' dead body. “What happened?”

But Brigg’s eyes were hard as he stared at Donnie, his gun aimed at Donnie, and with a look on his face like he was willing to shoot Donnie if he had to. Donnie knew he was wearing the same expression as he stood in front of Mike, his hand curling around his gun.

“Put the gun down, Donnie!” Briggs warned.

“Mike?” Charlie asked spotting the down agent behind Donnie. “Donnie… put the gun down. What are you doing?”

“’Fraid I can’t do that, Charlie,” Donnie said. “I’m going to need you to put both of your weapons on the bed.”

“What the hell is going on?” Charlie demanded, her gaze flickering between Donnie and Briggs before glancing quickly at Mike.

“I could ask you the same question.” Donnie forced himself to sound distant. If Bates had turned bad then maybe there was some merit in Grantaire’s suspicions earlier. His friends stood before him understandably confused but his priority was Enjolras. It always would be.

“Care to explain to me why your new roommate was able to sneak information to a prime suspect with none of you knowing?” Donnie’s accent was harsh on his tongue as he leveled a glare with Briggs.

It may have been irrational but if Briggs was innocent of everything, he should have known. The Briggs he knew would have caught on way before Mike had even been taken. None of this should have happened! His friends had changed and not for the better.

“What are you talking about?” Charlie asked, her gun lowering just slightly.

“What are you doing here?” Donnie countered instead.

“We were following a hunch,” Briggs said, a glint passing over his eyes that told Donnie he knew he was being intentionally defiant. Donnie narrowed his eyes.

“A hunch, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“What hunch, Briggs?” Donnie asked, his voice raising. Mike shifted at his feet, a weak hand curling around his ankle.

“Oh enough!” Charlie shouted. She holstered her gun and shoved past Briggs, ignoring his warning. “Get that gun out of my face, Donnie.”

Charlie’s scowl twisted into a concerned frown as she dropped down beside Mike. Briggs and Donnie glared at one another for a beat before both of them holstered their weapons. Donnie glanced down at Mike, watching as Charlie cupped his face and whispered soothing words under her breath.

“Mikey,” she said softly, a tender hand brushing back his hair. “One of you two call an ambulance. Mike? C’mon, honey. Open your eyes for me.”

Donnie hadn’t even realized Mike’s eyes had closed until Charlie said something. He fought down a surge of panic, reminding himself that the kid was exhausted and whatever sedative Killian had given him had probably won out. 

He was safe. Enjolras was safe. They had found him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for such a late update everyone! I had a show and then finals right afterward! But I'm pushing through so here you go!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oooooooohhhhhh.... I am so sorry. Here you go. I'll just... yeah.

It took two deep, painful breaths that made Mike’s ribs scream and head spin to realize that he was alive. It was weird to have to make the realization that you were in fact alive when you had spent your life simply knowing it to be fact. By all accounts, he should be grateful but he’d much rather be sleeping for the next year… though that may have been the drugs in his system begging him back into oblivion.

“Hey Mike.” A southern drawl curled in the air. It took more effort than it should've to turn his head but Mike recognized the face immediately.

“Son of a bitch.” Mike’s voice was hoarse but Donnie smiled sheepishly at him, a smile Mike couldn’t help but return though his lips felt like they barely twitched in response.

“R went for some coffee,” Donnie explained propping his head on his fist. “He was scarin’ the nurses.”

“Bahorel,” Mike said though it was more a question, a plea if he was being honest. Donnie sighed tiredly, nodding. The name felt familiar on his tongue, pulling a subtle growl from the back of his throat, and the abundant sense of relief that only his old friend could bring settled over him like a soft blanket. With Bahorel, Enjolras could relax and be unguarded for a few moments.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mike winced at the way his voice cracked into a whine but Donnie didn’t say anything.

Donnie frowned, scratching at his beard. “You were pointin’ a gun at my head, kid.”

Mike nodded and then grimaced.

“Didn’t seem like the right time.”

“Is it ever?” Mike’s laugh turned into a groan and he suddenly became very aware of the amount of tubes and wires hanging off his fatigued body. IVs pressed into his hands, heart monitors were attached to his chest and his thumb, there was a tube steadily flowing oxygen into his nose. It was stifling and his breath quickened making everything hurt all the more.

Donnie was out of his seat, hovering over Mike with his hands out like he wasn’t sure where to touch him and scanning his body up and down for visible injuries. “Where does it hurt? Ribs? Head?”

“Can everywhere be an option?” Mike mumbled, grimacing as he tried to find a better position. There wasn’t one.

Donnie reached for the call button but stopped when Mike’s hand curled around his.

“Don’t,” he said.

“You’re in pain, kid,” Donnie said looking like he as the one actually in pain but Mike shook his head.

“It’s… I…” Mike groaned again at his struggle to find the right words. They were there, waiting to be said and to be heard, but his tongue was clumsy and his temperament too unreliable. He tripped over words instead of letting them flow out of him as gracefully as they should.

“I can’t… Not yet.” He gritted out. It was like pulling teeth. “It’s too blurred up here.”

Mike made a half hearted attempt to point to his head but his expression was borderline panicked and the drugs still coursing through his system made him unable to control them.

“I can’t… I can’t tell…”

“Alright. Alright. Slow you down,” Donnie said letting go and leaning back into his chair, trying to ease the tension crawling up Mike. “But at least try to sleep. Your boyfriend will shoot my balls off if you don’t get some rest.”

A practiced breath whistled past Mike’s lips as he sunk back into his bed. Boyfriend. Grantaire. He was still alive in this life then. And as much as he was itching to ask, to demand answers, he couldn’t handle _knowing_ yet. Not when he felt like an exposed nerve.

As if knowing what he was thinking, Donnie curled a hand around Mike’s squeezing just enough for him to feel the solid weight and pressure of Bahorel’s grip.

And that rush of protected safe feelings washed over Mike in a way that was so Bahorel he almost felt like crying. Bahorel, his friend.

“Rest Mike.” Mike peered up at him, his gaze blurry as sleep pulled at him.

“You’ll still be here when I wake up?”

He didn’t mean just the hospital.

It sounded childish and weak and Mike hated it but he need to know. Donnie smiled, a cheeky twist of a grin and a smirk. It just screamed of Bahorel that Mike felt himself instinctively relax the last few tense muscles.

“Anything for you, chief.”

And then Mike allowed himself to fall back in the dark recesses of sleep that caught him and held him until he was able to drift into a healing lull.

He didn’t wake until a couple hours later, when his eyes refused to open and his body could do no more than relish in the warmth of the blanket and the bed and the soft lips pressed against the corner of his mouth. The taste of coffee and whiskey and the mint fragrance from Grantaire’s shampoo wafted around him. Mike leaned into the kiss and let out a sigh after smelling something that wasn’t antiseptic and the forced oxygen pressed under his nose. Fresh and alive not stale.

He must have fallen asleep again because the next time he woke his body was stiff and uncomfortable but the pain had been dulled into a floating numbness. Pain medicine. He remembered the feeling well.

“Hey there, Mikey.” Mike blinked away the left over hangings from sleep and twitched his face into a small smile. Charlie’s brow was lifted, her dark long curls looking frizzy and pulled as if she had been running her hands through them, and her lips were folded into a delicate pucker.

“What’s the damage?” He asked since he couldn’t really take stock of a whole lot.

“Couple of bruised ribs, a concussion, lacerations on your wrists and feet, a slight infection from a few of the cuts on your feet, cuts and severe bruising… I like the black eye,” she said softly. “Makes you look tough.”

Mike let out a laugh, letting his eyes rest in the darkness behind his eyelids for a minute.

“Yeah… well… I don’t feel tough.” Mike croaked.

“That’s just the pain killers.” Charlie smiled. “They had to wait until your system was clear of whatever else that had been pumped in it before they could give you the good stuff. Grantaire made sure of it.”

Mike froze.

Grantaire. Not Grégoire. Not R. Grantaire.

Charlie’s brow arched higher and an irate curl popped out from behind her ear. “You woke up from a nightmare a few hours calling for him.”

Mike struggled to sit, his body sore and not cooperating as he tried to put his weight under him.

“Please… Charlie… Don’t---“ Charlie held up a soothing hand but it did nothing to starve off the rapid panic in his chest.

“Mike, you need to breathe,” Charlie said calmly. “You’re ribs and lungs took a beating.”

Well, that explained the short painful wheezing passing from between his lips. He wrapped his arm over his chest but braced himself.

“Mike,” Charlie said when she saw him begin to argue. “His secret is safe with me.”

But it wasn’t. It really wasn’t. Mike knew Charlie, loved her as if she were family. But she was impulsive when she was emotional. She would flip a switch the moment she deemed fit and she wouldn’t regret it for a moment. Harsh but true.

As if sensing his thoughts, Charlie leaned forward in her chair resting her hand next Mike’s. They weren’t touching but they were close and when she peered up at him, her eyes were soft but piercing. The sincerity was enough to calm his heartbeat.

“We don’t got a lot going for us at Graceland. We can love each other like family but trust… It’s hard to come by. You can’t trust a lot of people in this world, Mikey… but you can trust me… And when you want to tell me what’s going on in that head of yours… I’ll be here.”

Mike swallowed down the rest of his panic and forced himself to smile, shifting his fingers enough to nudge against Charlie’s.

“Where’s R?” He asked, pointedly ignoring the fact that she knew Grantaire’s name for when he could think clearly, free from the numbing medicine coursing through his veins.

“Outside bickering with Donnie. Something about self worth and sleeping. Paige suggested drugging their coffee.” Charlie smirked. “I don’t know what you’ve done but those two have been thicker than thieves for the past week. They bicker more than Johnny and Jakes.”

“Jakes is back?”

Charlie hummed. “So you knew about him too?”

“Had my suspicions.” Mike swallowed again, relaxing further back into his bed and just wishing for the drugs to let him sleep again. It didn’t take too much convincing.

“Guess we’ve been missing a lot that’s been going on.” Charlie sighed, slapping Mike’s hand away when he went to fiddle with the nasal cannula. “Stop fussing.”

Mike shifted again, feigning trying to find comfort. His body felt like it was on fire, the inner instinct to fight or run taking over until it burnt out what little energy he had left. He dropped back into his bed and let the warmth take over his body as he twisted his head towards Charlie.

“Tell them to go home for me?”

Charlie pursed her lips. “They won’t listen.”

“They will if it’s from me… Just… tell them to go sleep.” Mike peered over at Charlie from under his eyelashes. “Please?”

Charlie was frowning again but Mike didn’t care. His face pinched tight as he felt a wave of stinging pain make it’s way from his feet and crawled up his legs. But then like a flash it was gone and the heavy pull of the drugs coursing through his system started to pull him under.

“Sure,” she said. Mike yawned and allowed his eyelids to win.

“Don’t pull away from us, Mike.” Charlie whispered. He said nothing, promised nothing, and allowed her to run a soothing hand over his brow until he fell asleep.

* * *

 “There’s nothing to worry about.”

In that moment Donnie was pretty sure that he was going to punch one of his closest friends. He was going to slam his fist into the side of his face right in front of the entire hospital staff and he wasn’t even going to feel a little bit of remorse.

“Nothing to worry about?” He hissed instead, forcing his voice into a whisper. “What happens when they realize that the bullet in Zelanski’s skull didn’t come from my gun?”

Grantaire simply shrugged from his relaxed pose against the wall, his arms wrapped around himself. “It’s not going to appear on record.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. What about the others? About the house?”

“They know not to ask questions.” Grantaire said firmly.

“That was before one of them _died_.”

Something dangerous flashed across Grantaire’s face. Something dark and sinister that used to live in the recesses of old Grantaire’s soul and had somehow tagged along for the journey through time. “He---“

“Stop.” Donnie pressed his lips into a thin line. “I didn’t mean it like that. But you know what they’re like. They’re never going to trust you after this.”

“They don’t have too,” Grantaire said lowly, casting a glance down the hallway. Briggs and Paige were just down the hall, loitering around to appear inconspicuous but drawing enough attention that they looked like they were waiting for someone.

“They’re not going to trust me or anyone else either,” Donnie said. “Not even Mike.”

“They wanted Mike back just as much as we did…” Grantaire scoffed. Briggs paced up and down the hallway before fiddling with his phone, glancing over when he thought Grantaire wasn’t looking. “Some of them at least.”

“Yeah, well, you took that away from him too,” Donnie said. Grantaire gave him a sharp look but didn’t argue. Neither said anything for a moment. It had been exhausting dealing with their respective agencies, keeping a watchful eye on Marius and Mike, keeping George away from other watchful eyes that they had drawn, and beating off the undeniable tension amongst the others. But they were alive and no matter how much the other wanted to beat the other one in for being a stubborn asshole, Donnie and Grantaire couldn’t deny the overwhelming relief that had washed over them.

Grantaire broke first and nudged Donnie. “Are they bothering you much?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Donnie tiredly said. “Eventually.”

The door made a soft click when Charlie closed it behind her. Her face was set in that determined way it got when she was ready to hunt someone down and it was aimed at both of them, making them squirm.

“He wants you two to go home,” she said. Their responses were at the same time and equal in intensity.

“No.”

“That’s not happening.”

Charlie sighed, pushing her hair out of her face. “He said that if I told you two that you would listen.”

“Yeah, well he’s wrong.” Donnie crossed his arms. “If he---“

“Both of you,” she said holding a hand up. “Stop.”

Grantaire glared catching Charlie’s eye as she swung a finger around at him. “No, don’t give me that look R. You’re dead on your feet and Mike needs space. He hasn’t had that in over seventy two hours.”

“I’m not leaving him here on his own,” Grantaire said so low it was practically a growl. Charlie pursed her lips again and cast a glance over at Paige and Briggs.

“I will make sure that they don’t bother him either,” she said. “Look, I don’t know what you three are up to and to be perfectly honest, I don’t want to know. But right now your boy in there has had people hovering and questioning him and his whole world spun upside down. It’s time you two take care of yourselves.”

Donnie and Grantaire shared a silent exchange, something they had picked up early and made Charlie want to scream at them to just use words for the rest of the class to understand. But she could read both of them like a book and combined with the fact that they had strikingly similar tells it wasn’t hard for her to figure out that they were about to tell her to shove it.

“I don’t care if you’re in the building next door with an entire surveillance set up but you can’t stay here,” she said. “ _Go home_.”

* * *

_He had had a dream, a dream where he had remembered a land that he had loved so fiercely and so whole-heartedly that it ached. It hurt his chest. Not in a pained way but as if it was too much to bear and he felt like he was going to explode because he loved that land so much he couldn’t stand it. It was a love that no one could understand and no one could come between. There was someone who had come close, someone he had felt almost as close, making him feel the way he did about his home but there had been a greater purpose that he had had to serve first. The mighty glorious Enjolras serving one true purpose. But he hadn’t realized that until he had been falling._

_And then he had fallen, fallen out of the car as the door he had been propped up against in his sleep had been yanked away and he had started to tumble out of the car. Then hands had been grabbing at him and dragging him and he hadn’t really fought because he was still too confused with the conflicting sensations of obsession and failure. But hands were wrapping around his arms and his knees were being dragged across the concrete and then he had passed out again._

Mike woke up when the sun peered through the crack on the blinds and with a clumsy hand he fished for his phone on the bedside table. Half past six. He’d woken ten minutes before Grantaire was suppose to come get him. The bed was comfortable and smelled like home but the blankets were stifling and the heat was uncomfortable. With a groan, he tossed the blanket over on Grantaire’s side and with a little too much force, the blanket fell off the side. He glared down at the socks covering his feet, too large and too soft for something he would ever wear, but taking them off would be too much effort and it also meant that he’d have to see the bandages still wrapped around from ankle to toes. Wrapping an arm around his torso, Mike swung his legs over the side of the bed and groaned as he slowly sat up. At least he could do that on his own now. Most of his wounds were close to being healed or at least tolerable. His snarled response to Johnny’s teasing the last time he had come in to help Mike out of his own bed might have been a little extreme but honestly he didn’t need everyone waiting for him to break at any moment. Not when he was doing everything to make sure that didn’t happen on his own.

The first night in his own bed had been relatively calm. He had slept more than he had been awake though he was almost positive Grantaire didn’t sleep a wink. The second night he’d been able to coax--- more like demanded--- Grantaire into the bed. But with his reluctance to rely too heavily on his pain meds and Grantaire’s constant fear that he added to Mike’s pain, it had been an uncomfortable series of fumblings and readjusting. The third night held nightmares. Mike’s brain had been still thankfully void of any solid memories, though he knew they would come eventually, and he couldn’t help but feel thankful for his ability to compartmentalize. The flashes were another part that he could ultimately ignore and his grasp on memory and reality was becoming better but still… He couldn’t deal with them then.

Grantaire, however, didn’t have the same luxury. Mike, unwilling to let Grantaire sneak off when Mike had finally fallen asleep, had resolutely found a comfortable position that didn’t hurt his ribs on top of Grantaire. With his head pillowed on Grantaire’s chest and an arm wrapped around his waist, Mike couldn’t miss the shifting and the rapid rising and falling as Grantaire’s breathing grew frantic. Mike knew better than to startle Grantaire awake but before he could do anything, it was over. With a sharp gasp and a rigid stiff jolt, Grantaire woke up soundlessly. Mike forced himself to remain still, feigning sleep. Grantaire calmed and relaxed but Mike couldn’t see his face to know what he’d experienced in his own head. But then Grantaire’s arms curled around him with his hands twitching as if afraid that Mike wasn’t really there.

Grantaire slept---- or didn’t sleep--- on the couch for the rest of the nights. Mike tried to ignore the hurt that crawled in his chest each night he slept alone.

Mike could hear voices down from downstairs. Putting weight on his feet was still unbearable but after several attempts to show the others that it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as it looked, he had been left to move around on his own. In the comfort of his own alone time though, Mike let himself lean against the bed and then the wall and the door. He even made it down the stairs mostly with the help of the bannister before he had to sit and take the weight off his feet. It was Grantaire and Briggs, arguing in the kitchen, like they did everyday. The tension was thick in the air of Graceland and Mike wasn’t going to be the one to add to it. Especially when he knew that he was the cause for the two fighting in most instances. Sweat beaded down the small of his back and he was out of breath but he stayed silent. The last thing he wanted was for the others to see him crumpled on the steps like some kind of invalid damsel. Breakable.

His eyes are still surrounded with bruises from the punches and the blood loss. His feet are bandaged and covered more for his sake than anything else. The stitches and the ointments were almost worse than the blood. His body, a giant bruise in short, was still achy and weak but healing all the same. His head, though, was another story. The concussion led to headaches but the drugs led to mixed memories that only aggravated his mood.

_The phantom tug at his lips made his mouth dry out as if a gag he couldn’t remember silenced his cries. The lingering stretch of skin on his cheeks from tears he only vaguely recalls shedding in a quiet moment away from the pain made Mike scrub at his face with his hand. A voice sang a song in a language he didn’t understand at some point. Maybe Russian or Ukrainian. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. He remembered being manhandled like a piece of meat. Remembered strong hands holding his biceps and pinning them to his chest as a needle pricked his skin. Remembers kind gentle fingers combing his hair as he cried out for foreign names in his drugged stupor. Remembered someone else crying and screaming and it made him sick to his stomach to know that he was out and those gentle fingers that had offered what little comfort they could weren’t._

He knew the protocol. He was too close. Too emotional. He’d never get an in on the case other than to give a statement that would be ripped to shreds in court... If it ever got there.

It was funny how even when he was awake he still couldn’t stop dreaming. He remembered others. Other people that had been like him. Men and women dredged down to the lowest of the low and striped of any worth other than the one thing the body was natural capable of doing. Sometimes he remembered faces but he had been too far gone in his grief and too far gone with the drugs coursing through him to remember if they were real or not.

Mike had wanted so desperately to remember but all he had now was a blurred line between what was reality and what was too long ago for most people to remember.

“Mike?”

Damnit. Mike groaned as he peered up at Jakes who was standing at the foot of the stairs.

“What are you doing up, man?” And there was Johnny and his complete lack of volume control. Briggs and Grantaire raced from the kitchen as Mike struggled to pull himself up. Grantaire reached forward but Mike recoiled back from him. Something that he wasn’t willing to admit ripped inside of him. But Briggs scoffed and went to grab his arm.

“Stop,” Mike hissed from between his teeth. Somehow he pulled himself up onto his legs and glared at each of them with such an intensity that it created a flare of nostalgic adrenaline. But it didn’t last long and Mike pushed past them and out the door.

“That seem fine to you?” Briggs asked cuttingly.

“I never said he was fine,” Grantaire said, low and annoyed. “I just said he didn’t need your help.”

And then he was shoving past his former housemates and chasing after Mike.

Mike wasn’t far. By some miracle he’d made it down the stairs without falling onto the concrete slab at the bottom.

Curling his fists into his pockets, Grantaire said nothing as he approached Mike from behind. Curls, blonde and coiled, were twisting at the base of his skull. His breathing was still heavy, his shoulders rising and falling noticeably, and his hands were in tight fists at his side. Mike set his jaw as he glowered at the sand. Grantaire winced. He hadn’t thought about it and neither had Mike going by his darkening expression. Stairs was one thing but sand with Mike’s exposed feet was an absolute no.

Caged.

“C’mon,” Grantaire said softly. He stepped in front of Mike, offering his back with a jab of his elbow. Mike worked his jaw, the refusal on the tip of his tongue, but Grantaire rolled his eyes and squatted.

The weight on his back was tense and unsteady. Hands clasped around his neck, shaking. Careful not to jostle him too much, Grantaire stood, grasping Mike’s thighs and began to walk.

Ahead, the beginning flumes of smoke curled into the sky and the smell of salt water and campfire mixed in the air. Before everything had happened, when he was still confused and stuck in a weird in between, he would have smiled at the irony. Even nature was colliding. The ocean and sand rested on his shoulders like a cool blanket of Mike Warren’s old life. But the fire and smoke tightened his chest sparked a part of him that he hadn’t realized he’d been missing until now.

 _“He’s different, Paul.”_ Mike remembered hearing Charlie hush to Paul when they thought he was sleeping.

_“He’ll bounce back, Chuck. He always does.”_

_“Not this time. Something’s different. He’s different. We’re losing him.”_

Grantaire bent down until Mike could slide off his back and land on the pocket of towels. George settled beside Mike and the prickly sharp edge along his spine relaxed.

“Look who escaped the safe house!” Donnie’s southern drawl carried across the bare beach. Marcus limped along beside him, a soft smile and some color back on his face. Donnie helped him settle on one of the drift wood logs that surrounded their small party. Grantaire handed Donnie a beer bottle before snapping off the cap on his own as the carbonation emitted a soft hiss.

Dropping down beside Mike, Grantaire stretched his legs but left an obvious space between them. He itched to lean closer to Grantaire, to bask in his warmth and get his hands on a piece of skin, to feel his heart beat. But Grantaire could hardly look at him and that hurt more than he cared to admit. He shoved Grantaire away once. He didn’t want to do it again.

“Well,” Donnie said when the silence stretched on too long between the group. “We’re a bunch of sad shits.”

“I hate to agree with you, Donnie, but I think the sentiment is shared amongst us.” George pulled out a silver flask and took a small sip.

“We used to be great.” Mike’s throat felt dry with bitterness and he curled a hand into the sand before releasing it.

“We could be…” The soft voice made everyone jerk their heads to Marcus, who had reverted back to the quiet meek thing Donnie had found after he’d been released from the hospital.

“We could be,” he repeated. “Again.”

No one said anything to that and it didn’t take a genius to notice the barely hidden skeptism. They used to be a group about hope but now they were merely a bullet riddled flag, caught in the crosswinds.

A small smile pulled on Marcus’s mouth and he curled around himself. “I don’t have a life anymore.”

“Marcus---“

“Marius. I think I want to go by Marius. "Something flashed across Marius’s green eyes as he looked to Mike, something strong and fierce and familiar.

“I am sorry.” Marius said. Mike frowned but Marius raised his hand. “No, I am. I was prepared to die beside you and I didn’t.”

“No,” he said. “You shouldn’t apologize for living, Marius. We should’ve lived. All of us. But we didn’t and for some reason we’ve been given a second chance.”

"Speaking of second chances," George said, pocketing his flask and reaching behind him. Pulling out a small worn shoebox, he held it out to Marius with a soft smile. "I had a couple of my associates in New York retrieve this from your old apartment." 

Marius stared at the tattered shoebox awestricken. He took it with trembling hands, cradling it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“It’s not much,” George said softly. “But it seemed important.”

Marius opened the box and dug around the few trinkets and papers before he pulled out the long silver chain.

“How did you---“ Marius began with wide eyes. George waved the question away with a smile. Marius toyed with the two rings, his fingers reverently dancing in and around his parents wedding bands.

“Thank you,” he said his green eyes turning into crystals as tears thickened his voice. Donnie threw an arm around Marius’s shoulders. The fire crackled between their small group as they sat in silence, allowing Marius to take a moment to become reacquainted with his memories and the others to simply become used to each other's company.

"I think I'm done with being a cop," Donnie said softly after a few moments. They fell into another silence and Mike curled a hand into the sand. 

"Me too." Mike nodded. Something sad settled in him but he'd known for a while. 

"You love being in the FBI," Grantaire argued and Mike shook his head. 

"I did," he agreed. "There's so much darkness in the world and... We have a duty to do something about that. We can't do that behind red tape and corrupt cops."

"A duty to who?" Grantaire's hold on the beer bottle tightened, realizing that they were facing a similar path as before and that one had ended in bullets. 

"To each other? To ourselves? Take your pick." Mike looked up at Grantaire, his blue eyes vulnerable but set. Cursing, Grantaire took another swig of his beer and pulled Mike close to his side. Christ, he wasn't going to lose him now. He'd follow Enjolras to the dark and back a million times. Mike shivered beside him but relaxed into his side and captured Grantaire's hand with his own.

“So what now, chief?” Donnie finally asked as he took a sip from his beer. "The world's a big place to take on. We aren't exactly what we used to be." 

Somewhere along the way a part of Mike Warren was lost and in place was a rage that he didn’t understand yet somehow it felt so right. He was frustrated. He was pissed off. People shouldn’t be collateral and there wasn’t a damned thing anyone was doing about it. Mike stared at each of his friends. Grantaire, Combeferre, Bahorel, Marius. He remembered rooms of people doing the same. Hoards of people looking to him for the answer. It was easy when there was only one answer. 

“We need to find the others." 

No one said anything. Combeferre nodded as if he'd known the answer all along. Donnie stared down into the fire with something unreadable on his face. Marius goddamn smiled. Grantaire sighed before leaning down and kissing Mike's head. Taking a drink of his beer and setting the bottle down in the ground he look up at the others and nodded.

"Where do we start?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm graduating this weekend so I'll make sure to go back and proofread this like 8 more times but I wanted to get this up before all the craziness happened. Thanks everyone!


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